By Grace
by Lmere969
Summary: " "During the vault scene, what was Rumlow thinking when he was exchanging looks with The Winter Soldier? Frank Grillo: If he was on the right side. " " Chapters 1-7 set over the timeline of the Winter Soldier, BrockxOFC, background Stucky
1. Chapter 1

**For it is by grace you have been saved.**

* * *

The phone rang, and I smiled, looking over at it, knowing without turning it over who it would be. He always called me when he was away on a mission, when he could. I was still grinning when I finally reached over and picked it up, though years of practise kept the smile from my voice.

"Hello?"

"Hey baby, it's me." He sounded tired, and I bit my lip to hold back my giggle. I'd never giggled before I met him.

"Hello? Did I order a booty call? I don't remember, but then, they do all blur together sometimes," I sighed. His silence was so thick, I could feel it. I knew the way his face would look right now, how his brows would draw together over his eyes, his mouth thinning, but he didn't make a sound. No one could make silence quite as loud as him. I bit at my fingernails, smiling as I listened to his silence.

"Oh really?" he growled, after a long pause.

"Mmm," I rolled over in bed, staring at the ceiling above me. "Oh yes, but there's only one I keep waiting for."

"Yeah?"

"Oh yeah," I said, and now I knew he could hear me smiling. "I love you baby."

"I love you too. I miss you." Smiling sadly, I sat up.

"I miss you too. How's it going?"

"Fine. It's over. I'll be home in a couple of days," he said, some of the tiredness returning to his voice.

"A couple of days? Where are you?" He laughed at last.

"Oh, come on, baby, you know the drill," he said.

"Hmm," I said, flopping back down on the bed. "Then I guess you don't get to know where I am either. Or what I'm doing." There was a pause, then I distinctly heard the sound of a door closing.

"We were on a ship. Talk."

"A ship? Really? How inter—"

"Talk," he growled, and I laughed, letting the sound stretch then die.

"Well," I said quietly, "I'm in our apartment."

"Hmm..."

"And I'm in our bedroom..." I could hear him breathing, and closed my eyes, imagining he was beside me, instead of miles away. "On the bed..." I whispered, and I heard his long sigh. "And I'm waiting for you." His growl was the best sound I'd heard since he left.

"You're such a tease."

"You love me."

"I love you," he confirmed. "Do you love me?"

"Come home, and I'll show you just how much." His groan this time was a little less composed. "I'll see you soon."

"Soon. I promise." I laughed, made a kiss at the phone, and hung up on him. The darkness of the bedroom seemed a little lighter than it had done before. He was awful at calculating time zones, and probably had no idea he'd woken me, but I didn't care. I would give up sleep willingly to hear the sound of his voice. Still smiling, I rolled over, crawling back under the covers and holding the phone close to my chest as I closed my eyes.

.

.

Two days later, I shut the door to the apartment with a sigh, leaning back against the wood and fighting to stay upright. _He'll be home soon_ , I reminded myself, as I dropped my keys into the bowl, and kicked off my shoes. Dropping my bag with a dull thud that made me wince, glancing apologetically towards the floor, and I moved forwards on gentle feet, padding towards the kitchen. But I never made it, because as I emerged from the hallway, I glanced left, as I always did, and froze. He was there. He was back, he was home, he was here. I threw myself at him, and he caught me, his arms holding me tight, pulling me close. I clung to him like he was life itself, my face buried in his neck, my breathing a little ragged.

"Shhh," he murmured. "It's okay, I'm back. I'm here. It's okay."

"I love you," I whispered, pulling back to look at him, my eyes scanning desperately for any bruises or new scars, until he caught my chin in his hand, and I looked him full in the face.

"I'm fine," he said, and his mouth quirked up. "And I love you too." And I kissed him.

.

.

It was several hours later, when we were properly reacquainted, sitting curled around each other on the couch, when the phone rang. I groaned, but pushed up from where I was leaning back on his chest.

"I can get it, you've been at work," he said, making a move to stand up, but I pushed him back down.

"And you've been off gallivanting," I smirked, liking the way he fell back beneath my fingers. "I can get it." And so I did, dancing across the room to pick up the receiver. "Hello?"

"Hey, Grace."

"Jack!" I smiled. "Good to hear your voice, how are you?"

"I'm fine thanks," Jack said. "You?"

"Oh, I'm great," I said, turning to look back towards the couch, where he was watching me with dark eyes. Jack laughed.

"I take it he got back okay then?"

"Yeah, do you want to talk to him?"

"Please."

"Okay, just a second." I threw the phone across the room, and he snatched it out of the air with ease.

"Rumlow."

* * *

 **A/N:** **Short start, but I got a huge overdose of Rumlow-feels (which has never, ever happened before) from that tumblr post / quote from FG, so this happened.**

 **Un-beta'ed, all mistakes are my own. Credit to all the amazing people at Marvel and beyond.**

 **This may develop into more chapters, will see how it goes. Hope you enjoyed. Reviews make me happy, just in case you were on the fence...**


	2. Chapter 2

I wandered into the kitchen while Brock was on the phone. Jack Rollins was one of the few people he worked with that I'd actually met, and I liked and trusted him. It made me feel better to know that if Brock ever got into trouble, Jack would have his back. There was other too, probably a whole team, but they were both so secretive about their work, and I didn't press them. With a yawn, I lean against the fridge door, eyeing the contents. There were two steaks at the top, the ones I bought specially as soon as I knew when he would be coming home soon. We could have those this evening. A pair of hands came around my waist, and I jumped a little, though I knew it was him from the first touch. Leaning back against his chest, I gave him a quick kiss over my shoulder.

"Steak?" I asked. He groaned in longing and I laughed. "How's Jack?"

"He's okay, just needed to check when we have to be in tomorrow. He was pretty out of it earlier." I paused as I slid the steaks onto the counter, looking back at him.

"Is he okay?"  
"Yeah, he's fine, just got a bit banged up." I hesitated, and he gave a small smile. "Grace, he's fine, seriously. Just got a fist in the face, but he's good. He's picking me up tomorrow, you can see for yourself," he said, his arms coming around me again, his tone low and soothing, and I nodded.

"And you're okay?" He laughed deep in his chest.

"Of course I am. Nothing's ever going to stop me coming back to you," he said, kissing me gently, and I followed him when he went to pull away. I knew he could handle himself, but I still worried. He never got annoyed at my constant fussing when he got home though. Another reason why I loved him, one of many, though reason had little to do with it. My stomach growled, fully aware of the food I was ignoring, and I pulled away with a sigh that had him chuckling again.

"Steak and chips?" He asked as I turned back to the meat, unwrapping it carefully. "I could run down the street, get some from the takeaway?"

"No!" I bit my tongue, cutting off my desperate cry as I spun to face him. "Just..." I swallowed. "Let's just have some from the freezer." Brock's face, normally so hard and guarded, was staggeringly gentle as he moved back towards me, stroking one hand down the side of my face.

"Okay," he said softly. "Okay." We were in constant contact as we moved around each other making dinner. I stroked his back as I squeezed past to get the salt, he returned by brushing my arm with one hand as he reached for a knife with the other. The touches said everything we didn't need to voice out loud.

.

.

A couple of hours later, food prepared and eaten, clearing up done, I stared without seeing at the wall of our bedroom, my head cushioned on Brock's bare chest, his hand tracing my arm, my fingers splayed on his stomach. Even relaxed, I could see the ridges of hard muscle inches from my nose, but I kept my hand still, resisting the urge to stroke over them, knowing what would happen if I did. I grinned at the memory. It was so simple to lift up the corners of my mouth, so easy to smile with him so close.

"What are you laughing at?" he asked, rough amusement in his voice, and I looked up, unsurprised that he'd know, feeling the tension under my hand as he lifted his head, and I smiled all the more broadly for the sight of his face.

"Nothing," I said, "just glad you're here." He laughed, and I felt the sound all around me, under my hand, through my shoulder, under my lips as I pushed up to kiss him. He gasped a little, his mouth opening to mine as his hands rose to cup my face, tracing down my back. And gentle as a feather, I brushed my hand over his stomach, round to his side. He _squeaked_ , breath catching in his throat as his whole body spasmed, limbs jerking sideways in an attempt to protect himself.

"Grace!" he gasped, trying to be serious, but the tremor in his tone ruined the effect, and I laughed as I continued my assault, bringing my other hand to his other side, a double sided attack that had him squirming beneath me as I alternated between soft strokes and firmly poking my fingers into the most sensitive spots. "Grace!" he moaned, but he was laughing now, face screwed up, and I was giggling above him. It had taken nearly a year before I'd found out he was ticklish, and it remained a certain point of pride that he let me see him like this. I knew that he could have me off him in a second if he wanted, but he was always so gentle with me, even when I tortured him with tickling. But that didn't mean he didn't retaliate. Lunging upwards, Brock grabbed my shoulder and flipped us both over, the move taking me by surprise, my hands stilling on his sides, just holding now, and in that moment of mercy, he attacked, his mouth descending on mine as his hands ran down my sides to the bottom of his t-shirt that I slept in, and then under it. I gasped, right along with his mood, winding my hands around his back as he caressed his way up my stomach, much as I had done for him, but without the reaction. I wasn't ticklish, and I grinned under his mouth, even as I shivered with anticipation at the pathway his fingers were taking.

"Stop laughing," he grumbled, but I had no breath left to reply or apologise as his lips found mine again, and I was panting already.

"I missed you," I finally managed to gasp, breaking away from his mouth long enough to get a breath, and he growled in approval, a sound that sent shivers through every part of me that had missed him so badly.

.

.

Quite some time later, and still panting a little, I pulled his old t-shirt back over my head before flopping down on the bed, where Brock immediately threw a lazy arm over my waist.

"Welcome home," I said coyly, looking back over my shoulder at him, pleased to see he was just as strung out as I was. With a chuckle, he planted a light kiss on my shoulder.

"I love you," he murmured, and I grinned.

"I know." He scoffed, pushing me lightly, but I grabbed hold of him before I could roll too far away.

"Go to sleep," he chuckled, entwining his fingers with mine as he sighed out a long breath. Grinning, I reached over and flicked off the light, revelling in the feel of his body behind mine in the darkness.

"Brock?" I whispered.

"Hmm?"  
"I love you too." He laughed, pulling me even closer.

"Good."

"Good?" I rolled over and blew a breath straight into his face, making him jerk backwards, blinking rapidly even as he tried to control his smile.

"Urg, Grace, just go to sleep." Still chuckling, I settled again, facing him now, tracing the outline of his face in the darkness. He could be harsh, and gruff, and intimidating, but at times like this, his face relaxed and open, I couldn't see anything but my Brock in his features, and he _was_ mine. Yet another reason why I loved him.

.

.

Brock was up before me the next morning, though not by much; I rolled out of bed just as he came out of the shower, dodging his kiss.

"Morning breath!" I grumbled, shutting his laugh behind the door. He had breakfast ready when I emerged, a bowl of my favourite Special K cereal waiting beside the milk. I frowned down at the bowl.

"Are you trying to fatten me up?"

"What?" The worry on his face was adorable as he practically pounced on the bowl, tipping it to try and gauge the amount. "Did I do too much?" I laughed, and he drew back scowling as he returned to his own cereal. "Very funny," he grumbled, and I kissed him on the cheek as I went passed.

"Thank you," I offered sincerely as I poured milk, and he grunted, but I could see the smile round the edge of his mouth. "What time is Jack going to be here?"

"Half an hour," Brock said, without even looking at the clock.

"Really?" I asked, pausing in my breakfast to raise an eyebrow. "Half an hour, huh?" He groaned.

"Don't, I need to at least try and listen this morning." I gave a wicked grin.

"How important can it be?" I asked, rolling my shoulders in the way that always set his eyes on fire. He shut his eyes, shaking his head, even as he smiled.

"Stop it," he begged, and I chuckled, even as I returned to my cereal. "You're awful," he said, slurping up the rest of his milk straight from the bowl before moving over to the sink.

"Hark who's talking?" I griped, throwing a mock punch at his back that he dodged without even looking round. I downed the rest of my cereal and we cleared up together, him washing while I wiped by unspoken agreement. We moved around each other seamlessly, a dance born from practise, both gathering our things, using the bathroom again, always together but never underfoot and it seemed like much less than half an hour when there was a knock on the door. I was closer, and padded along the hallway, opening it with a smile ready on my face. It slipped off my face faster than water as I gasped.

Jack was several inches taller than Brock and I, a huge hulking figure with slicked-back hair and a wide face. A face that, at the moment, was half covered by a huge purple bruise that covered the entirety of his left check, all the way down to his jaw, and round towards his head.

"Jesus..."

"It's fine, Grace, it's fine. Seriously, better than it looks," Jack said hastily, slipping inside and shutting the door behind him. I couldn't stop gawping at his face, even as I heard Brock come up behind me.

"Rollins."

"Boss. Ready to go?"

"Yep, let's head off." They both grinned, enjoying the play at seriousness that I knew would last half was down to the car, but even the smile looked painful on Jack's face. "Grace," Brock pulled my head around, tearing my eyes from Jack, even as he opened the door and stepped out into the hallway.

"Oh my—"

"He's fine," he cut me off quickly, but I couldn't help throwing him a sceptical look.

"Be careful," I pleaded, and he snorted.

"At a debrief?" But I didn't relent, glaring at him and he rolled his eyes. "I'll be careful," he promised. "Always am." He kissed me, and then he was gone, the door closed behind us, and I let out a shaky breath. _Always am._

"You'd better be," I muttered to the empty space before me.


	3. Chapter 3

It was a fairly quiet day at work, nothing went wrong, and I smiled all day. It didn't go unnoticed, my colleagues probably getting a little freaked out, but returning the expression with only slight hesitancy. I was cleared up the lab, locking all the cupboards, and sang along to the radio as I drove home. Brock wasn't back yet, but when I checked my phone, I found a text from him.

 _Stuff happening, don't know when I'll be back. DWLU._

 _Don't worry, love you_. Half my brain instantly started screaming, the way it always did when he said not to worry. Most pointless instruction ever. _Stuff happening_ , what did that mean? I flicked on the TV, switching over to the news, and my mouth instantly settled into a grim line. I didn't need the anchor to explain what was going on. The black SUV on its roof was enough. The image was gone in a second, replaced by a far blurrier one of the same scene, but from across the street. One of the doors had been completely ripped off the car, lying abandoned halfway across the street. _Is this your_ stuff, _Brock?_

With a sigh, I switched off the TV and wandered aimlessly into the kitchen, standing for a full minute in the middle of the room before I shook myself from my reverie. Just because he wasn't here, didn't mean I had to mope about it. With brisk decisiveness, I made myself some sweet and sour chicken, forcing myself to keep moving round the room, never standing still. It worked, until I sat down to eat, staring at the empty chair across from me. Forcing my eyes down, I began to eat, furiously trying to plan my evening. I could watch a movie, snuggle up with a blanket, and a big bowl of ice cream. Smiling a little, I kept my mind focused on the image as I ate, refusing to let it wander elsewhere.

I was just dragging my laptop closer, trying to decide what to watch so I could set it up before getting my ice cream, when my phone started buzzing. The blanket went flying as I leapt towards it like a scalded cat, recognising the name before I was even half way across the room, and I took a breath to compose myself before I answered.

"Hey."

"Hi." He sounded shattered, as if even the effort of talking was beyond him.

"Is everything okay? I saw the news..." I trailed off, listening to his sigh, and what might have been the sound of him sliding down a wall.

"Yeah, just... everything went to shit."

"Do you want me to come pick you up?" I glanced out the window. It was truly dark now, the sun long since set. "I can be there in 15 minutes." I knew the way to Shield HQ, though I'd rarely been there, and barely had enough clearance to wait outside the building for him.

"No, I..." he hesitated, "I'm at the hospital." I froze.

"Are you hurt?"

"No, I'm fine. It's... Director Fury was shot," he said, and I gasped before I could stop myself. I sat down on the couch, my mind reeling.

"Is he going to make it?" I asked, and there was a second of silence.

"I don't know. It doesn't look good. He's in surgery."

"I'm sorry, Brock. Is there anything I can do? Do you want me to come down there?"

"No, it's okay. I just... I just wanted to hear your voice," he sighed, and I closed my eyes. "I don't know if I'll get home tonight, I'm sorry."

"Hey, no, it's fine. Don't worry about it, if you're needed there," I said at once, and as much as I missed him, I meant it.

"Do you have any idea how much I love you?" he said, his voice torn between tiredness and wonderment, and I thought I heard a dull thud of his head connecting with a hard surface.

"An inkling," I grinned, but couldn't hold the expression. "Are you sure there's nothing else I can do?"

"Just—" he broke off suddenly, and I heard a door opening, then a mumbled voice. "Okay," Brock said, his voice suddenly brisk and hard. "Just gimme a sec." Another mumble, and a door shutting. "I've gotta go. I'll... I'll see you as soon as I can.

"I—" I cut myself off. _I'll be waiting,_ would just be cruel, even if it was true, so I went with another truth instead. "I love you."

"I know," he replied softly, and then he was gone. I hung up and sat for a few moments gazing into space. After a few minutes that stretched into eternity, I shut down the lid of my laptop, all plans for a film forgotten, and went to bed.

If Brock every came home that night, he did so without waking me, and left before I opened my eyes the next morning.

* * *

 **A/N: Yes, I have seen Civil War (Americans, I hear your weeping...). No, I'm not going to say anything about it. No, I haven't decided if this will follow it, or diverge at some point, will see where it takes me.**


	4. Chapter 4

I didn't see Brock again until the next evening. I'd had to stay later than normal at work, when a box of priority samples came in at ten to five. So it was fully dark by the time I finally unlocked the door and stumped into the apartment. There was a light on in the living room, but all was silent, and I froze for just a second before tip-toeing down the hall. Brock was spread out over the couch, bare feet hanging off the end, face half hidden in shadow, eyes closed, hair glistening with moisture. I melted against the wall, torn between wanting to laugh at how adorable he looked, and wanted to cry at how tired he must be. Then I wondered what would happen if Jack, if any of his team saw him like this, and had to choke back my giggles. Moving as quietly as I could, I slipped across the room, but before I'd even gone two paces, his eyes opened, and he blinked a couple of times before focusing on me. With a small smile, he pushed himself upright, swinging his legs round as he sat up.

"Hey," he said. I dropped my bag, closing the space between us in two strides and dropping to my knees as I turned his face to the side.

"Brock, what _happened_?" I'd thought it was just the shadows that made his face darker, but I'd been wrong. There was a dark bruise across his left cheek, a streak of purple all the way from his eye to his jaw. The socket of his right eye was a matching shade, and there was an angry red scrape across his cheekbone just below it.

"It's nothing," he said, trying to turn his face away, but I grabbed his chin and pulled it back round.

"Don't lie to me. What happened?" I snarled.

"Rogers," he sighed, dropping his eyes.

"Excuse me?"

"Steve Rogers. Captain America."

"You got the crap beaten out of you by _Captain America_?" I stared at him.

"I did not get the crap beat out of me," he scowled.

"Have you looked in a mirror? And why did you two even—"

"He's on the run," Brock cut across me, and I fell silent at once. "He knows something about Fury's death, and he wouldn't say anything. He tried to run. We tried to stop him." He winced as I ran in finger over his bruise. "He's a fugitive now." There was a personal bitterness in his tone. I sat back on the floor, staring blankly ahead, shocked. "Guess you didn't have the radio on at work, huh?" I laughed, but it was a hollow sound.

"I... Fury's dead?" I asked, and he nodded. "But... and... Captain America?" He slipped off the couch to kneel before me, pulling me up with his strong arms and holding me to his chest, and we clung to each other. "Who's going to be director now?"

"Alexander Pierce," he murmured. "He's got half the country on the lookout for Rogers already." Shaking my head, I pulled back and stood up.

"It doesn't feel right," I said as I walked into the kitchen, Brock following a pace behind. He made a slight noise of protest as I opened the freezer, but I glared at him, and he quietened, accepting a bundle of ice and wrapping it in paper towel. "How long had you been working with Rogers?" I asked, once his face was half hidden.

"I'm sorry," he said softly, his one visible eye not meeting mine. "I would have told you if I could." I wrapped my arms around him, resting my cheek on his shoulder.

"I know," I said.

.

.

We ordered takeout, neither of us able to muster enough energy to cook. Brock quizzed me about my day, and I answered him, but the things we didn't say were the loudest silence possible. It wasn't until we were lying curled together in the darkness that I found my courage.

"What's going to happen when you find him?"

"I don't know," he replied "we got _to_ find him first. We nearly had him twice today, but missed him both times." He sighed, the breath tickling my neck, and I reached back to take his hand, entwining my fingers through his.

"It'll be okay," I said, and felt his nod tugging on the pillow. For a few moments, we were both silent, and my eyes drifted closed as I yawned.

"It's inevitable," he whispered a long time later, and I was too far gone to ask what he meant. I slipped into sleep.

We both jerked awake in the early hours of the morning, roused by the shrill sound of his phone trilling. Instantly alert, he leapt out of bed, scooping the noisy device up.

"Rumlow," he said, sounding as alert as if he'd been up for hours, not seconds. I sat in the middle of the bed, watching his bare back tensing. "Okay, I'll be right there." He hung up and began to move at once, pulling a black shirt out of a drawer and throwing it on. "They've got something, I've gotta go in," he said, wriggling into his pants and throwing on his tac vest. I didn't answer, watching him get ready in silence. He swooped past on the way out, pausing long enough to caress my cheek. It wasn't enough. I rolled off the bed and grabbed his wrist as he went to open the bedroom door, pulling him back for a desperate kiss.

"Be careful,"

"Hey," he lay both hands on my waist, resting his forehead against mine, "it's going to be fine. And I'm always careful." I snorted. "Go back to sleep," he chuckled, and was gone, closing the door softly behind him, leaving me alone. I listened to the muffled sounds of him pulling on his boots and then heard the front door open, and close. Slowly, I crawled back into bed, burrowing my face in the pillow that still smelled of him, and closed my eyes. _It's going to be fine,_ his voice echoed through my head. I bit my lip and tried to believe it. _Inevitable_ , was my last thought before I drifted off again, though I didn't know why.


	5. Chapter 5

Something was wrong. I could feel it as I got up and went to work. Brock had been nervous, and anything that could make him nervous should probably terrify me. I felt like I was waiting for a bomb to go off, always looking over my shoulder without ever turning. The inevitable explosion came half way through the afternoon, and ripped mercilessly through my life. I was halfway through testing the pH of a water sample, idly swirling the probe through the liquid whilst trying to relax the knot of tension between my shoulder blades when the door burst open.

"Grace, come see!" my colleague, Maxine, cried before dashing back out the door.

"What is it?" I called after her, before the door could shut.

"Captain America!" she yelled back, and the door clicked shut. I jammed the probe back into its holder, ripping off my gloves as I lunged for the door, turning right and streaking after Maxine's retreating heels, my lab coat flapping behind me. I caught myself on the door jamb, swinging to a halt in the entrance to the break room, where everyone was crowded round the TV in the top corner. Maxine was right; it was indeed Captain America, more recognisable from his shield than anything else, dressed in plain clothes, and locked in a vicious fight with a man in black and silver. The news camera, on a helicopter from the angle, was having trouble tracking them as they wove back and forth. There was utter silence in the break room as we watched the pair fight, entranced. They eventually broke apart, the one in black rolling away from the Captain. For several seconds they seemed to just be looking at each other, but just as the dark one took a step forwards, he was knocked off balance from behind by a man with _wings_. Honest, true-to-God, wings. There was a swell of gasps and murmurs as the newcomer landed, staggering forwards several paces, the dark man rolling away from the force of the impact, but he came up quickly, turning back to the Captain, who didn't move, just looked across at him. There was only the barest hesitation before he raised a gun. Shouts echoed around me as the car beside him quite literally exploded, a huge ball of fire rippling out, sending a huge plume of smoke into the sky. The camera panned madly, losing track of everything as it pulled out to try and track the flames. Captain America was still on his feet, so it seemed the man hadn't managed to fire at him, or had missed, but of the dark man himself, there was no sign.

The silence was broken, the entire room erupting into talk. I sagged against the wall, taking my first breath in a while. Away from the group, I was left alone to my thoughts, not close enough to join the discussion, so I stared at the screen, watching without realising what I was seeing, looking through the flashing lights, until I saw something I couldn't look past. It was Brock. Gun up, he advanced on the Captain like a predator, forcing him to his knees and pulling his hands down behind his back. Jack was inches behind him, gun up to the Captain's head. Realising it was hanging open, I snapped my jaw shut as Brock pulled the Captain upright and Jack stepped backwards. The room continued to buzz as the Captain, along with the man with wings, and a red-haired woman I suspected I recognised were shoved roughly into a truck, Brock and Jack disappeared into the cab of another one, and the whole procession sped away. The video cut away to the newscaster, and I walked out the room, numbly passing through the empty corridors back into my lab, where I leant against one of the cabinets and let my knees tremble. They'd got him. Brock had got him.

I'd never seen Brock working before. He'd looked good, like he knew what he was doing, but seeing him in the place where bullets and explosions had been only seconds before terrified me, and my previous solution of not thinking about it didn't seem to work anymore. I was scared for him, and all the training, all the experience, all the men at his back, couldn't do anything to change that.

.

.

People were in a frenzy for the rest of the day, constantly coming in and out of the lab, sometimes on their own, sometimes in a group, always discussing what we'd seen on the news. I put on a good face, saying what was expected, encouraging them to keep talking, my true feelings hidden behind a mask that fooled them all.

"I wonder what'll happen to Rogers now," Maxine said, as she leaned against the worktop with Rob.

"Probably lock him up somewhere," Rob said. "I just want to know what he did to make them come after him." I keep my mouth shut, face hidden as I washed up some glassware in the sink.

"But how could they keep him locked up? Surely he could just break out of anywhere," Maxine objected.

"They've probably got a special place somewhere. They're hardly gonna kill him, are they?"

I dropped a beaker. Luckily, there was a mat on the bottom of the sink, which both muffled the noise, and stopped it breaking. Neither of the others, caught up in their debate, noticed as I picked it up with trembling fingers, shoving it back under the tap to flush off the bubbles then setting it on the side to drain. Jack, with his gun up to Steve's head. Brock's glance up at the news chopper before he'd backed down. They weren't really going to kill Captain America, were they? I shivered, though the room was warm. I knew Brock had killed before, in the army, I knew he'd fired bullets that had ended lives, and I'd never even met Steve Rogers, but the image of Brock pulling a trigger, and blood splattering everywhere wouldn't get out of my head. I wanted to throw up, the nausea coming hard and fast, and I leaned over the sink, hands braced as I took a deep breath, eyes closed, trying to ignore the continued chattering of the other two.

"I need to put this stuff in the oven," I said, spinning to face them, offsetting my brusque tone with a false smile. They barely even noticed, nodding and moving out the door, as I'd hoped, rather than further into the lab. With that barrier firmly closed between us, I let out a long breath before I did, indeed, move all the glassware into the oven, checking the temperature. It didn't need to be very hot, it could have overnight to dry off. Then I walked over to the bin and lifted off the lid, looking down at the mass of paper towel and blue gloves.

 _Okay,_ I told myself, _now you can be sick._ And so I did.

.

.

My mouth still felt grimy as I opened the door to the apartment. I was later than normal, having stayed to empty the bin, and while it wasn't completely dark outside, the sun had already set, casting deep shadows inside as I headed straight for the kitchen and got a glass of water, rinsing out my mouth several more times. It wasn't until I wandered back out into the sitting room, about to check my phone to see if Brock had contacted me, that I realised the bedroom door was shut. I hadn't shut it this morning. I knew at once who was on the other side, but for the first time ever, I hesitated. I didn't want to open the door. Would it be easier to walk away? Easier for me, for now, perhaps, but not overall. So I opened the door. Brock was sitting on the end of bed, head in his hands. He didn't look up as I pushed the door open, his breathing perfectly even and steady, his shoulders moving smoothly. It wasn't until I flicked on the light that I saw his eyes were closed, and he had tear-tracks all down his cheeks. Brock was crying. My knees buckled, and I fell forwards, barely catching myself on the door handle and lowering myself the last two inches.

"Brock?" I whispered. He went very still, holding his breath, but he didn't say anything, and he didn't open his eyes. "Brock?" I tried again, begging, pleading. Inching my way forwards, I closed the gap between us on my knees, until my trembling fingers touched his knee. The dark fabric of his pants was soaked through, the damp patch sticking to his legs, and I swallowed down a gasping sob of my own. How long must he have been sitting here, crying by himself in the dark, for this to have happened? "Brock, what happened?" His amber eyes opened, slowly, tortuously, though they remained fixed on the floor.

"He..." he began, but his voice cracked as another tear slid down his cheek. "They... it was..." Giving up, he closed his eyes again and shaking his head.

"Brock, please, talk to me." This wasn't what I'd expected. This wasn't the reaction I'd imagined. Something had to have happened to break Brock, my strong, fierce Brock, like this.

"I don't know what I'm doing," he breathed, quieter than a whisper. "I thought... it used to be so clear, so easy... and now... I don't even know if I'm on the right side anymore."

"What happened?" I whispered. "Brock, what happened to Steve?"

"Steve?" His head came up fully, eyes searching mine in confusion, then clearing suddenly. "You saw. On the news." I nodded numbly.

"Everyone did. In the break room at work..."

"Nothing happened. Rogers escaped."

"Escaped?" I shivered. "But then what..."

"Someone... someone else."

"Who?"

"I don't know," he laughed, the mirth turning into a choking sob. "I don't even know his name."

"Brock, please," I said, my vision going a little blurry round the edges, "you're scaring me."

"Maybe we should all be scared," he said flatly, and I took a sharp, shaky breath. He looked up, and his face cleared suddenly, as his hands came up to cup my face. "I'm sorry," he said, "I shouldn't have said that. It's going to be okay."

"Is it?" I asked, blinking my tears away. "Brock, I've never seen you like this before. What's going on?"

"Nothing." It was like seeing a mask slip on over his face, the way his expression suddenly went calm and focused. "I'm sorry. It's going to be okay. Everything will get better, and you won't have to be scared anymore."

"Promise?"

"I promise." He drew me to him, and we held each other tightly. "I love you," he whispered in my ear. "It's going to be fine. I'm going to make you a better world."

"I love you too," I whispered back, but I couldn't dispel the speck of fear that remained in my heart. I didn't need a better world. I could face this one, as long as I had Brock with me. But I kept my mouth shut. I wish I hadn't.


	6. Chapter 6

Brock didn't stay. He had a shower, changed into fresh gear, and put his palm on my face before leaving me along in the dark apartment, promising me one more time that it would be alright. I didn't eat, couldn't eat, my stomach still squirming from its violent empting earlier, but crawled straight into bed, breathing in Brock's scent on the sheets, and I finally let my tears run freely, muffling my howls in the pillows. I was scared, and shaking, and so very alone. I shouldn't have let him leave. Whatever was going on, it wasn't good, and I didn't want him to be a part of it. No matter what he said, anything that could reduce him to the state he'd been in this afternoon... nothing was worth that. Nothing.

.

.

Dawn broke and I didn't know if I'd slept at all. Only my growling stomach, fully recovered, forced me out of bed. I still felt hollow, even as I ate, the satisfaction in my gut only emphasising the pain in my heart. As I drove to work, every intersection pulled at me. _If I turn, I could get to the Triskelion. I could get Brock. We could leave_. I had to take a minute in the car park to wipe my face before walking into work.

It was halfway through the morning when I felt the air shake, ever so slightly. Freezing, I looked up, wondering if I'd imagined it. But the liquid in the beaker on the bench before me was wobbling, the surface alive with ripples. I did a quick review of what was in it, chucked it in the non-hal waste bottle, and slipped out into the corridor, shutting the lab behind me. There were other faces there, curious and scared. A cry from outside alerted us, and we all rushed to the door, racing round the corner of the building, looking in the direction of all the desperate eyes. Far, far away, over the trees, and the city, I could see the faint fire and smoke of explosions, high in the air.

"Oh my god," I whispered. Then I re-orientated myself, and gasped. That was the direction of the Triskelion. _Brock..._ I turned, running back inside, pushing past people making their way out, hurtling into the break room and seizing the remote, jabbing wildly at the buttons. _Why did it take so long to turn on_? The news channel hadn't got pictures yet. But they didn't need them.

"—reports of explosions over the Triskelion, headquarters of SHIELD—"

I turned away, my breaths coming perfectly even and calm as I pulled out my phone and brought up Brock's contact. It had taken me weeks to get a decent picture of him to go in my phone, but I'd finally got his smile on camera. I choked a little as I raised the phone to my ear, listening to it ring, and ring, and ring, and go to voicemail. I hung up and tried again. It rang for eternity, and went to voicemail. I swallowed.

"Call me. As soon as you get this. Please. I love you."

"—we're now getting pictures live from above the Potomac—" I stopped listening, but turned to watch, swallowing hard as I saw the three huge helicarriers over the river, each one wreathed in fire. And I dialled Brock's number again. More people filtered in, gravitating towards the TV as we wasted a second day watching the events of the world unfold. I even saw my boss's boss across the room. No one cared about the work to be done. And still I tried to reach Brock. I tried Jack's number too, but his went straight to voicemail without even ringing. I left a message, and called Brock again. I kept on calling, until I saw one of the helicarriers smash through a column of the Triskelion.

No one screamed. No one cried out. The whole room was just... silent. Staring at the screen as if unable to believe what they were seeing.

"Oh dear God," someone whispered eventually. I echoed the sentiment silently. I wanted to pray, to beg, to plead with anyone that would listen for it to not be him, for him to be okay, to not be in the building. _Please, please just let him be somewhere else, anywhere else, not there, not there, please, not there._ But when had I ever been that lucky? There was a terrible weight in my stomach, and though I told myself I didn't know, couldn't know, some part of me remained sure that Brock was somehow tied to that destruction, that he might be... I slid down the wall to a heap on the ground, and I wept.

.

.

The air of shock didn't last long, soon dissolving into heated debates over the _who_ 's and the _why_ 's, as if any of it mattered. I sat on the floor, staring numbly ahead, snarling at anyone who tried to talk to me. Only when they left me alone with my thoughts did I come to the slow realisation that I couldn't just stay here. In a second I was on my feet and out the room, locking up the cabinets on autopilot, and walking out without saying a word to anyone. My phone sat silently on the seat beside me as I drove to the Triskelion.

There was debris everywhere, the smouldering wrecks of the helicarriers visible in the river, sending up clouds of smoke to the news and ambulance helicopters above. The way into the building was completely blocked, with people still stumbling out, skirting round the bits of metal and rubble that had fallen from the sky and the cars left haphazardly in the middle of the road. I leapt from my car, running along the street, scanning every face as I pushed closer.

It wasn't until a woman fell, coughing, right in front of me, that I paused my search. Stooping down, I lifted her up, half-carrying half-dragging her to the end of the road, out of the stampede of people, and leaning her up against the barrier while she choked and spluttered.

"You okay?" I asked, rubbing her back, and she nodded, though still gasping for breath. "Please, I'm looking for someone." She looked up at me, through blonde hair quirking a brow in permission. "Brock Rumlow." She stood up at once, face darkening faster than a thundercloud, knocking my arm away from her. In silence, she spat on the ground between us, and walked away. I watched her go in shock, unable to process what had just happened, or what it was supposed to mean.

.

.

I searched until the sun went down, when I was tired, and thirsty, covered in sweat and dust, having spent the day shepherding people away from the crumbling building. I'd never stopped looking for the one face I wanted to see, but I hadn't said his name aloud again, even though it beat inside me with every breath. As the sun set, I walked slowly back to my car. If he wasn't here... gritting my teeth, I started up the engine and turned around before speeding away.

.

.

"Brock Rumlow, R–U–M–L–O–W," I said, my hands bunched together on the counter as she tapped away on the keyboard. The fluorescent lights sparkled on her bright pink hair, pulled into a bun on top of her head.

"No, I'm sorry, there's no one in the system by that name," she said apologetically.

"What about unidentified? John Does? Anyone from the Triskelion? Please," I was begging, and I didn't care. Pursing her lips, she typed again, then nodded.

"We've got two in surgery, one in recovery," the nurse hesitated, her eyes flicking up to me, "and three DOA." _DOA.. dead on arrival..._ My hands clenched on the counter, drawing off its strength hold me up.

"Please..." I whispered, and she nodded, her face sympathetic.

"Jules will take you over to recovery first," she said, beckoning to someone behind me. I nodded numbly, staring at nothing, oblivious to the busy waiting room while the two women whispered together for a moment. The newcomer, with long brown hair, took me by the arm, murmuring something to me as she led the way through the hospital. My heart was in my throat as she came to a halt outside a room, glancing back at me. Slowly, I moved up to the window, peering through the blinds. A man lay on the bed, one of his arms in a cast, his face turned towards me. I shook my head. It wasn't him. The woman kept talking, all the way down to the morgue. I didn't hear a word of what she said. As the other nurse had said, there were three bodies in the morgue. Two of them I didn't recognise.

"Jack," I whispered, my hand reaching out. Nothing but cold glass reached back.

"Do you know him?" the woman asked gently.

"Jack Rollins," I nodded numbly, "he worked for Shield."

"I'm sorry."

 _Jack_... I swallowed. But Brock wasn't there. I backed away from the window, though I couldn't tear my eyes away until the curtains swished closed over Jack's empty face. The image followed me all the way back to the waiting room.

It got busier, then quiet again. I was tired, my body, my eyes, everything begging for sleep. I couldn't give it. How long had it been since the two men had gone into surgery? Maybe I should go and ask... but even as I thought of it, I dismissed the idea. The people here were busy, they were working. And it would take so much effort to move.

"Excuse me, ma'am?" At the vaguely familiar voice, I blinked, and looked up. It was the nurse on reception earlier, the one with pink hair. "I've got some pictures of the John Does in surgery... if you want..." Slowly, I sat up, my back aching after being hunched over for so long, my hand reaching already. But she held the files back, clutching them out of reach. "They are a little... graphic."

"Show me," I said, my voice hoarse and cracking. "Please." She hesitated, then slid a picture from the file and held it out to me. _Brock_. The keen that passed my lips was not meant to come out, but I couldn't help it. His eyes were closed, his skin red and black and peeling, but it was him.

"I'm sorry," the nurse said, but I barely heard her, clutching the picture before my eyes, rocking back and forth as tears dripped off my nose onto the image of his ruined skin, as if the liquid could soothe the wounds.

.

.

It was three more hours, three long, torturous hours, before Brock came out of surgery. I wasn't allowed into his room yet, because of infection risk or something, but I was permitted to look through the window. His face and arms were covered in bandages, barely an inch of his skin left visible. I didn't take my eyes off him, even when the doctor came to list everything that had happened to him.

 _Fractured ribs, broken thigh, dislocated shoulder, extensive second- and third-degree burns to his face and arms. Surgery went well, stable condition. Being given fluids and morphine, still under the effect of anaesthesia, unlikely to come round for several hours. Should go home.  
Go home?_ I blinked, looking round for the first time.

"I'm not leaving him," I said, stunned at the very possibility.

"He'll be asleep for a while yet," the doctor, a pretty woman with long brown hair in a braid over one shoulder, assured me. "You could go and get some sleep—"

"I'm _not_ leaving him," I repeated, turning away. She sighed, but left. I stood, watching Brock sleep, for as long as I could. The chairs on the other side of the hallway were too far away, so I pulled one over to underneath the window before I curled up, resting my cheek on the glass and staring at the man I loved as if my gaze could bring him back. As if my love could keep him alive.


	7. Chapter 7

It's four hours before Brock gets moved to a different room, and I'm allowed inside. I don't sleep, but watch him through the window, until I'm finally, finally able to be next to him. His face and arms are almost totally obscured by gauze, and the cast on his leg as visible through the sheets, but I touch the pillow beside his head, and pretend he'll know I'm there. After another two hours, the sun comes up, the light edging across the room, leaving me squinting in its bright rays, unable to see Brock's face. I moved to the other side of the room, with my back to the window, just as a nurse came in. She was older than me, and smiled in a weary sort of way, that I tried, and failed, to return.

"When..." I bit my lip, but she smiled at me, and I tried again. "When will he wake up?" My voice cracked, but my chin remained up, and my eyes were dry. I didn't think there was any more moisture left in my body to come out. She smiled again, gently.

"When he's ready," she said softly. "He's on a lot of morphine, for the pain, which can really put some people out. And it'll help. He needs to sleep." I nodded, my eyes returning to the little of his face I could see.

"He's going to be okay." I tried not to make it sound like a question. I did try.

"He seems like a fighter to me," she said, and I nodded.

"Yeah," I smiled a little for the first time in hours, "that he is."

I felt a little guilty after the nurse left that I hadn't bothered to find out her name. But by mid-afternoon, I had practically forgotten about her, about everything. Brock still hadn't woken. I checked the clock every two minutes, as if it would somehow make him come back. I'd never spent so much time with him without him being aware of it. Even when he'd been wiped out after a mission, and fallen straight into bed, I'd joined him pretty quickly. And that one time he'd gotten a fever from an infection, and been out of it for three days, he'd still woken every time I'd come in the room, just a flicker of his eyelids let me know he was there. Now he just lay still, and I was alone. I was hungry, and thirsty, and so, so tired but I didn't leave him. I couldn't leave him. But circled up in a chair, inches away from his bed, scared to touch it, lest I hurt him, I couldn't stop the inevitable. My eyes slipped shut.

.

.

A day. A full, whole day. I'd slept part of the afternoon away, and the older nurse had finally convinced me to go home in the evening, though I'd tossed and turned for several hours in my own bed, unable to get the picture of Brock lying so still out of my head. But I'd managed a few more hours of sleep, and had a shower. I even bolted down some cereal dry before returning to the hospital in the early hours of the morning. It had been a whole day since he'd come out of surgery. He still wasn't awake.

"Is this normal?" I asked desperately, staring down at him.

"It's... not unusual," yet another nurse, a young man answered. I wondered if there was any point in trying to remember their names, if they changed so much. Then I looked back down at Brock. This wasn't going to be a short visit. "Try talking to him," the nurse suggested. "It might help." I wasn't sure if it was a lie, something to make me feel useful, less lost, but it was a kindness even so.

"Thank you," I said, glancing at his name badge, "Nick." He smiled, and nodded before leaving, shutting the door gently behind him. With a sigh, I pulled the chair back over to by the bed and curled myself into it, stroking the bed sheets absently, still unable to bring myself to touch him. It was several minutes later that I shook myself back to the present.

"So I'm suppose to talk to you," I began. "I don't know what to say. What can I say? God, I'd say anything if you'd..." I took a breath. "Please come back to me. I don't... I don't want to..." Swallowing, I broke off again, watching my fingers. "I get sick of people sometimes. Everyone, anyone. People at work, Millie next door, Joanna at the coffee shop. All of them, I'd hate them if we spent too much time together, I know it. They'd drive me crazy. But not you. I would spend every second of eternity with you, and be thankful for each one. But you've gotta wake up first. That's all. Please, just open your eyes. Come back to me." Chancing another glance at the little of his face I could see, I tried not to focus on the bandages, or the breathing tube, or the redness of his skin. I just stared at his eyes. Willing them to open.

"You're all I have," I whispered, "and I'm okay with that. I can live like that. But I need you. Please, God, Brock. I don't care how long it takes, or how much things will change, or what we have to do, or, or any of that. Just open your eyes. Please. I love you. Please." His eyes didn't open. They didn't even flicker. With a sigh, I leant forwards, resting my head on the edge of his bed.

"Do you remember the first time we met? Down in that pub, The Third Noose?" I smiled a little in remembrance. "I didn't even want to be there, but Doug and Anna dragged me out with them. You were at a table in the corner, with what looked to me like half a wrestling team. Do you remember? I think Jack was there too." My throat closed up. _Jack..._ Jack would never be anywhere again. "You made me nervous," I said, blinking, "half the time you were the loudest group in there, the rest of the time you were all so quiet, watching everyone else. But I ignored you all as much as I could. And then those two guys kicked off. It wasn't even late, was it? I don't know what they must have been drinking, they were so out of it. It was a nice place too, never seen anyone fight there before, but they went at each other like bulls, didn't they? God, it was right next to our table." I turned my head the other way, staring at the tips of his fingers. "We all jumped backwards of course, trying to get away, but you..." I grinned. "You were in there so fast, all of you. Pulled them apart like it was nothing, chucked them straight out the door. And then," I smiled, closing my eyes, "then you turned right towards us, and I was just standing there like a rabbit, wide-eyed and everything, and you just said 'sorry ma'am', and went right back to your table, like nothing had happened. The biggest thing that had happened to me in a month, and it was nothing to you. We were still telling the story a week later.

"And then," I smiled again, still keeping my eyes closed, "I'm sure you remember the next time. It was even in the same pub. Anna and Doug had a rough patch, and she wanted to talk, well, she really wanted to slag him off a bit, but that's what she said. Anna was never that direct." I frowned a little. "I haven't spoken to her in months," I murmured, "I should message her some time. But anyway," I raised my head, resting it on my stacked fists so I could see his face again, "I got there first, even got a table too. I didn't even notice you this time. You were so quiet, all of you, and I was watching the door, anyway. Then this guy comes over. God, I'm sure you remember him. He wasn't quiet, then again," I chuckled, "nor was I. But he didn't exactly get the hint. You must have been listening, your timing was so good. Do you remember? I said 'I'm waiting for someone', and you..." I stared at his face, "I know you remember, you could open your eyes and tell me. I know you could." He remained immobile, and I sighed again. "You came out of nowhere, even made me jump, and you said 'yeah, so I suggest you move on, pal', and this guy..." I laughed softly. "He turned around, and he had, what, three, four inches on you? And he just backed off real fast, almost tripping over his own feet. You glared at him until he was all the way across the pub, then you went around the table, so I didn't have to crick my neck trying to look round at you, and you said 'sorry ma'am', just like you did the first time. You said that he was annoying _you_ , so you thought he must be annoying me too." I laughed again. "We seemed to run into each other almost every time I was there. I don't even know how many times we spoke before you asked if I wanted to get a drink it with you. It was a lot though, huh? Y'know, I never told you - that time you got rid of the jerk, and stayed with me for a couple of minutes until Anna arrived, I could hear you when you went back. All the others were taking the piss, and you just told them to shut up, and they did, straight away, and that made me smile. I never told you that, did I?" I was silent for a while after that, just watching him for any sign, any flickers of movement.

"First time I asked you what you did, you said you were a security team working for the government," I reminded him, "I guess that's as close to the truth as you could get at that point, huh? I'm impressed you got so close without giving it away." I sighed again, slumping a little more heavily onto my arms.

"Please wake up," I whispered. And he did. I leapt to my feet at once, breath catching in my throat. Had I just imagined it? I was so sure I'd seen his eyelids flicker. Frozen with desperate hope, I leant forwards, waiting... waiting... Brock's amber-brown eyes slid slowly open.

"Brock?" My voice broke as his eyes slid to mine, and held there, and they were the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. He twisted, his jaw working around the tube as his eyes darted away from mine, sweeping round the rest of the room.

"Shh," I begged, "it's okay, don't try to talk, you've got a breathing tube in." His eyes came back to mine, and his hand twitched on the bed. Very gently, I slipped my palm into his, though I wasn't sure he could tell through all the bandages. "It's okay," I said, "I'm right here, you're going to be okay." I thought I felt a slight pressure on my hand as his eyes slid closed again. I watched his face hopefully for a few more minutes, but he didn't wake again, and eventually I gave myself over to silent tears of relief. It wasn't a miracle, or a promise of recovery, but it was a start. It was hope, and I clung to it fiercely.

* * *

 **A/N: Welcoming... backstory! Coming soon: an unexpected visitor, hard talks, and hard decisions.  
If you need more Marvel in the mean time, go search out 'Naerys Targaryen' and check out The Moment We Come Alive. It's good. Very good.**


	8. Chapter 8

Brock dipped in and out for the rest of the day, sometimes waking for a couple of minutes, but other times only keeping his eyes open for a second before slipping away again. Around lunchtime one of the doctors came in, and said lots of medical things I only half understood, but which seemed to amount to the fact that once he was awake for a longer period, they would take out Brock's breathing tube and move him down to the burn unit. I nodded, thanked him, and gave a genuine smile. True to their word, when Brock kept his eyes open for a full ten minutes later that afternoon, his gaze sharp and alert, they came and took the tube out. Brock wheezed and cough for a bit, gasping for air, finally accepting some sips of water through a straw, before he looked back to me, drawing me close with just his gaze.

"What are... you... doing here?" he croaked out, and I laughed, the sound rolling out of me as I reached out and lay my hand on the shin of his good leg.

"Like I'd be anywhere else," I said, still grinning, giddy just from the sound of his voice. His eyes screwed up for a moment, before he blinked and looked away.

"Excuse me, we're going to move him now," one of the nurses said apologetically, and I nodded, squeezing Brock's leg for a moment before stepping back out of the way. The bed was wheeled out the door in no time, the nurses clearly well practised, and I trailed along in their wake, unable to keep a light smile from my face. _He's awake_. I barely noticed the other people stepping out of the way, or watching us pass, until the tinkle of plastic on the floor pulled me out of my own head. I stepped around the blue cup as it rolled sadly across the floor, forgotten by its owner. The man, with skin the colour of coffee and jet black hair cropped short, was staring after Brock with a mixture of shock and anger on his face. Unnerved, I glared back but he didn't seem to even notice, just staring past me until I rounded the corner, and he was gone. Still scowling, I turned away, shaking my head as I hurried to catch up with Brock.

His new room was nice, a little smaller than the other one perhaps, but the chairs looked more comfortable, and there were trees just outside the window. The nurses fiddled around his bed while I hovered just inside the door and the doctor flicked almost absently though the sheaf of notes on the bottom of Brock's bed. I slipped along the wall to the other side of the room as the nurses filed out.

"Well, Mr Rumlow," the doctor said with a smile, "how are you feeling?" I had to bite back a laugh. I hadn't heard Brock called that for ages, probably more than a year.

"Like I got... a building... dropped on me," Brock wheezed, and I had to smother another snigger. His sense of humour, at least, seemed to be undamaged. "What's the verdict?" he said, his voice still raw, but a little smoother this time. The doctor cocked his head to the side, but smiled all the same.

"You have some quite serious burns on your arms and face," he said, serious but calm, "and a few minor ones to your chest. You've got three fractured ribs, and your right shoulder was dislocated when you came in."

"Yeah," Brock said, with a tiny shift of his body, "I'd guessed those. What about my leg?"

"Are you in pain? I can review your—"

"Doc," Brock growled, "my leg." The doctor met his gaze.

"The bone is broken in three places, one of them quite nastily. You've got three rods in your leg, holding the bone in place."

Brock stared at him for a couple of seconds. "Will I walk?" he asked, and this time, I was sure the roughness didn't come from the aftermath of the tube.

"Yes," the doctor said, "but it will take time, and you probably won't be running any races for a long while, if at all." Brock let his head flop back onto the pillows, and his eyes slid closed. The doctor and I exchanged a slight smile as he retreated.

"Thank you," I mouthed to him, and he nodded before closing the door. I dumped my bag into the chair in the corner before moving back to Brock's side, my fingers hesitating on the sheets until his eyes opened again, finding me, as they always did.

"Are you okay?" I asked. He closed his eyes again, turning his head again.

"I meant it," he croaked. "You shouldn't be here. You don't have to be here. I know you don't want—"

"Hey," I cut him off, "what do you mean? What's wrong?" Slowly, he turned back to look at me.

"You don't know."

Frowning, I pushed the hair back off my face. "Don't know what? Brock?"

"Oh, God," he breathed, "you don't know."

"Know what?!" I begged. "Brock, seriously, just tell me what's going on!"

"I'm sorry," he whispered, "oh, Grace, I'm so sorry. I never meant... I never wanted... I'm sorry."

"Brock," I said, taking a deep breath, "please, just tell me." He just shook his head, turning away, eyes tortured. Scared and angry, I opened my mouth to demand some answers when the door burst open, slamming off the wall with a bang loud enough to make me flinch. Two men were framed in the doorway. The one to the back I recognised at once from the hallway, but looking at him now I could pick out the subtle bruises smattered across his face. The one at the front had short blond hair, and skin that might have been pale, if it wasn't hidden by varying shades of red and purple and yellow, a patchwork of scrapes, cuts and bruises. His eyes were fixed on Brock, and they were angry.

"You lying, traitorous bastard," he snarled, "I should kill you right now."

"Get out!" I growled at once, my shoulders bunching up as I took a step round the bed towards them, not that they took any notice of me at all.

"You sure you're up to that, Cap?" Brock wheezed, "Looks like you'd have trouble with a fly at the moment." I froze. _Cap?_ Steve Rogers glared at Brock, and took a very deliberate step forward, though his legs shook, and his hand remained clenched on the door frame.

"I trusted you, and the whole time..."

"Cap—"

"No! You don't get to say _anything_! How many Shield agents did you take down? You were going to kill me straight off, and Sam! Natasha too! But I guess that doesn't mean anything to you, does it?" Rogers took another step forward, and this time he seemed much steadier on his feet. I rounded the bed in three long strides.

"Stop it!" I snarled, planting myself directly between them, but Rogers kept coming, his strength growing with his anger, and he shoved me aside without even blinking. Stumbling, I turned, ready to throw myself between them again, but the other man caught my arm, holding me back in a tight grip, no matter how much I squirmed.

"Here's what's going to happen, you miserable pile of shit," Rogers said, grabbing Brock's shoulders and actually lifting him from the bed, until he gasped with suppressed pain. "You're going to give me the name of every bastard that was working with you, the location of every base, every single scrap of information you know. Then, you're going to help decrypt all the files Nat dumped on the internet. I'm going to burn Hydra to the ground, and I'm going to find Bucky, and when I do, we're going to come back, and we're going to end your worthless existence. Are we clear?"

"Not your best motivational speech, Cap," Brock said through gritted teeth. "I'm not getting any reasons why I should." Rogers took a step back, dropping Brock roughly before lifting a hand in my direction.

"There's your reason," he said coldly, pointing at me, "there's your _motivation_." Brock's eyes flickered.

"You wouldn't," he growled. "She has nothing to do with this."

"I don't care," Rogers snapped. "Do you hear me? I don't care." He dropped his hand as he stared down at Brock, and I continued to try and twist free from the bruising grip on my arm. "You knew about Bucky."

"I didn't know he was _your_ boyfriend, if that's what you're saying," Brock said. Rogers lunged forwards, his fist slamming down onto Brock's stomach. Gasping in pain, he rolled sideways, struggling to get a breath in. Snarling, I turned around, ducking under my own arm and twisting until I felt the hand holding me slip. I wrenched free, completing the pivot and springing towards the bed. Ducking my head, I shoved my shoulder into Rogers, using all my momentum to shove him off balance. It barely made him take a single step, but my foot was ready in between his, and he tripped, falling with a huge crash. Feet planted, fists clenched, I stood over him, shaking.

"Get... out!" I snarled, and this time, they all heard me. Rogers picked himself up from the floor slowly, looking straight past me to Brock. He was still breathing hard, but seemed to have his temper under control again.

"List of names, by this afternoon," he said.

"Out!" I snapped, and he glanced at me for the merest second before turning and striding out the door. The other one followed him. I stared after them for a second, then stomped across the room and closed the door, leaning my forehead against the solid wood for a moment.

"Grace?" Brock coughed from behind me. "You okay?"

I turned round. "No. Brock, what the hell is going on?"

.

.

He talked for a long time, his voice raw from the start, but never stopping. I listened in silence, without commenting, or interrupting. Hydra, the vision of a new world, no more wars, no more threats. No more freedom. I barely noticed when he fell silent, my head was spinning so fast. There was one question I was burning to ask, but I knew I wouldn't be able to ask anything more after he gave the answer I knew he would. So I swallowed it down, and chose a different one.

"What happened on Thursday?" I asked. "I saw you on the news when you arrested Rogers. He's right, you were going to kill them, weren't you?" Brock nodded, avoiding my gaze.

"Yeah. We were," he admitted.

"What else?" I demanded, and he looked back at me. "You were a mess that night. Something else happened. What was it?" Brock looked away, but I just waited.

"Did you see the fight? Before we took down Rogers, did you see who he was fighting?"

"Yeah," I said slowly, remembering the man in black. "What about him?"

"He's known internationally as The Winter Soldier," Brock said. "He's an assassin, one of the best. And it seems he's also Roger's best friend."

"What?" I frowned. "How is that possible?" Brock shook his head.

"I don't know," he said. "I only found out on Friday morning, I didn't have time to go through the file properly. But something happened while they were fighting. I don't know what Rogers did, but the asset recognised him."

"The _asset_?" I repeated, slightly sickened.

"That's what he was called, internally," Brock said quickly. I closed my mouth, gritting my teeth. Brock hesitated, then went on. "He was... odd. Not responding to commands, barely even seemed to notice we were there, and..."

"And what?" I asked, after a moment of silence, though I wasn't sure I wanted to hear.

"I don't even know what they did to him. But the way he screamed..." Brock looked away and I took the opportunity to shudder.

"How long were you a part of Hydra?" I asked, plucking up my courage, dreading the answer. He hesitated. "Since before we met?" He nodded and I closed my eyes, looking away.

"Grace—"

"You lied to me. Right from the start, you were lying."

"I never meant..."

"What? Go on, _please_ , finish that sentence!" I was practically spitting. Brock kept his mouth shut, his desperate eyes never leaving my face. I wanted to storm and rage at him, to pace around the room, and shout until he understood. But I also wanted to curl up in a corner and weep, to never face the world again. I compromised by standing up and turning away, crossing my arms as I tucked my chin down and tried not to let the tears run free.

"It's all just been a stream of lies, hasn't it?" I said thickly. "First you're part of a security team, then you're part of Shield, then you're working with Captain America, now you're part of Hydra." I turned back to face him. "Was anything you said to me true?"

"I love you," he said, and a drop of moisture ran down my cheek. "Please, if you don't believe anything else, believe that. I love you."

"I would have followed you to the ends of the earth, you know that?" I choked. "I would have done _anything_ for you." He closed his eyes, and I imagined a tear falls from his eyes to the ruined skin around them. "You scared everyone else, but you never scared me. Even when you were angry, when you were fighting, when you were covered in dirt and blood, I was never afraid of you. But I'm afraid now, Brock. I'm scared that I never knew you at all."

Brock opened his eyes and they were shining as he looked at me. "You knew me," he said. "You _know_ me, better than anyone else." I looked away. Something was broken; I thought it might be my heart. I didn't know what to say.

"Grace, I..." Brock hesitated, "I need you to do something for me." At one time, I might have laughed at that, but then again, at one time, I would have done anything he asked of me. I looked back at him in silent permission to continue. "Do you have a pen? And a notepad?" Fresh tears flowed at that, because he knew that I had one stashed in my bag. Like he knew everything else about me. Silently, I turned away, rummaging through my bag until I found pen and paper.

"The names," Brock said, "for Rogers. Will you write them down for me?" I opened my mouth, realised I had no idea what to say, and closed it again. I just nodded instead, reclaiming my chair and opening the notebook to a clean page with trembling fingers. Brock took a deep breath, and began.

I scribbled desperately, guessing at the spelling, writing down everything he told me. Sometimes it was just a name, sometimes there was an address, or job, little notes about their rank, or how much information they might have access to, or events they'd been involved in. The list kept growing, and I had to swallow back more tears. They were everywhere. Senators, school teachers, police men, doctors, scientists, even some in the White House. I kept writing as the list spread over to the next page... and the next. Finally Brock hesitated, and I paused, pen suspended above the paper.

"Jack Rollins," Brock said, very quietly.

"Jack," I whispered, frozen.

"Yeah. I'm sorry, Grace," Brock said, but I shook my head as I put the pen down.

"Brock, Jack... Jack is dead," I said, risking a glance up at him.

"Dead?" he repeated, his voice flat. I nodded.

"I... I identified him in the... in the morgue, when I was trying to find you," I said. Brock lay his head back and sighed, his eyes closed.

"You shouldn't have had to... I'm sorry," he said, and I looked away. "Write him down," he said eventually.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. He was with the council members. Rogers will already know about him." My hand shook as I wrote it down, and put 'deceased' in brackets afterwards. There were no more names after that. I flicked backwards, scanning the five and a half sides of 4" x 6".

"How did you remember all this?" I asked quietly. Brock twitched in imitation of a shrug.

"We don't keep anything like that on computers. Not secure. So we remember it all," he explained. I ripped the pages from my notebook in one swift movement, and folded them in half. Brock's hand twitched, and I slipped the wad of paper under his palm, where it was hidden between his wrist and the sheets. One of his fingers uncurled, touching my hand lightly, and I froze.

"Thank you," Brock said, and I nodded, but didn't withdraw my hand. "Now you need to leave." My eyes jerked to his, finding them serious and sad. "Please. Don't drag this out. You're not going to stay. And..." he swallowed, "Rogers has already seen you once. I don't want you to get involved. So it's best if you go now. And..." his eyes flickered down, then returned to mine, "don't come back."

"Brock," I whispered.

"Don't. Please, Grace. Don't lie to yourself. Not about this. Just go."

Slowly, I pulled my hand back from his, and retreated across the room, my numb hand picking up my bag as I turned towards the door.

"Just..." I hesitated as Brock spoke, my hand on the door, "remember I loved you." I couldn't help glancing over my shoulder for one last look.

"I loved you too," I whispered, and stepped out the door.

In the corridor, I pressed my back to the wall, hugging my bag to my chest as I listened to the silence in his room through the crack where the door hadn't closed. The first sob tore through my chest, breaking my heart all over again. But I still walked away.

.

.

The hospital cafeteria was moderately busy, with a couple of family groups, several people sitting alone, and a group of nurses in scrubs in the corner. I got myself a cup of coffee and headed towards a table, moving to sit facing the wall on instinct, because I knew Brock would want his back to the wall. I froze, just about to slide into the chair, then turned, and sat in the other one. It was nice actually, being able to see all the people, and watch the entrance. He would definitely have sat here. A tear rolled off my cheek and I dashed it away angrily, setting my jaw and keeping my eyes open to stop any more from falling. I was not going to cry any more, especially not here, surrounded by people with sick relatives or friends. They would assumed I was in the same boat, maybe try to share a sympathetic smile across the room... I dropped my eyes before it could happen. So what if I _knew_ that he would have chosen this table, this very seat? It didn't change the fact that he had lied to me, constantly, ever since we'd met. Would it have been so very difficult for him to just tell me one night – 'hey, I think we should be threatening everyone on earth to stop them from blowing places up'. I sighed, and turned my cup around on the table with my fingertips. Not such an easy conversation to have. Maybe it would have been better if we'd never happened, if he'd never chosen to put me in this position. But he hadn't chosen, because I knew that was something he was telling the truth about; he loved me, and we don't get to chose who we love. Just like I didn't get to chose to leave him. It took me a moment to realise what I'd just thought. Scowling, I tried to push the thought away, because it was my choice. I looked away from the cooling coffee, staring around, too angry to worry about meeting someone's gaze. Instead my eyes were drawn to the cheerful posters on the walls, full of motivational quotes about hope, and positivity, and not giving up the fight. I closed my eyes, but it was too late. It was far too late for me. Because it _was_ my choice, and I had made it the moment I'd come here, rather than walking out the door and driving away. I wasn't going to give up on this fight. Abandoning the un-drunk coffee, I stood up, grabbed my bag and strode purposefully out of the cafeteria. We needed to have another conversation.

* * *

 **A/N: Special thanks to Naerys Targaryen for helping me with your weird paper scaling, fixing my writer's block, and not letting me use the phrase "pile of piss". It was a close call... ;)**


	9. Chapter 9

The hallways were long and inviting, only the presence of other people stopping me from running flat-out along them. Limiting myself to a brisk walk, that occasionally bordered on a jog, I made my way back to Brock's room, in much better spirits than when I'd left. I'd put out a hand to push open the door when I realised it was half-open already, and there were voices inside. Coming to an abrupt halt, I stood and listened.

"I'm not sure I care what you think, Rogers," Brock was saying. "You're trying to bury Hydra, how am I meant to know you're not going to come after me the minute I give up those names?"

"Oh for..." I flinched at the crash from inside.

"I'm just pointing it out," Brock said. "You want my help. And you want to be able to get to me afterwards. That will be easier if I'm not in a prison cell. Or dead because you missed someone in Hydra who doesn't like traitors."

"Seems to me like traitors are their favourite people. How else do they get anyone to join them?" I didn't recognise this voice, but remembered the other man, the one who'd held me.

"Hydra started inside Shield," Brock said bluntly, "but it grew from there. They're everywhere, and it was easier to get people into places than turn the ones that were already there."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It means here's your damn list," Brock sighed. There was a rustle as someone snatched the paper from him, and then silence for a couple of moments. I could just imagine them flicking through the pages, scanning everything I'd written.

"Where's the girl?" Rogers said eventually.

"Gone," Brock said, and I closed my eyes at the harshness of his tone. "I told you she has nothing to do with this."

"How do we know she's not warning all these people right now?" Rogers asked, and I gritted my teeth. _Enough skulking outside doors_. I pushed the door open and stalked inside.

"She's not," I said coolly, rounding the bed to stand facing the two men. I looked down, and met Brock's gaze. He shook his head silently, pleading, but I just raised a single eyebrow, and looked away. "Now, unless you've got something else you need to say..." I waited, but the pair remained silent, glanced from me to each other. "Then I suggest you get... to work." I said. I'd probably told them to _get out_ enough by now. Rogers looked down at Brock, then back at me.

"Who the hell are you? His sister?" The second man asked.

"His girlfriend," I corrected him sourly, and eyed the door meaningfully, ignoring his snort of disgust.

"We'll be in touch," Rogers said.

"I don't look forward to it," Brock wheezed after them as they stomped out and shut the door behind them. Brock turned to me at once.

"Grace, I told you to leave."

"I know," I said, dumping my bag and pulling up a chair beside him. "I heard you."

"Then why are you here? I was trying to protect you, keep you out of this—"

"Exactly. You were trying to keep me out of it," I repeated, slumping back and crossing my arms. "But that's really not your choice to make."

"Grace—"

"It's done. Unless you want me to run after them and give them a business card or something. Address, phone number, y'know."

"You don't have any business cards," Brock said, seemingly before he could stop himself.

"True, but I'm sure I could put something together," I said. He stared at me for a long second, but he broke before I did, shaking his head slowly.

"Why did you come back?" he asked sadly. "You were right, I lied to you, I hid things from you... everything I've done."

"I don't care," I said. He stared at me. "That came out wrong," I backtracked. "I care, okay. It bothers me, all of it. But I love you more."

"Grace, I can't ask you to stay, not with..." Brock's fingers twitched.

"No," I agreed, "you can't. But since this really isn't a matter of you asking, that doesn't make any difference. This is my choice. And I've made it." He opened his mouth to argue, and I sat up, cutting him off before he could begin. "Look, I know this isn't going to be easy. It's gonna be the hardest thing I've ever done. You lied to me, a lot, and I'm not going to forget it, not because I don't want to, but because I can't. And you're in a hospital bed. And all the stuff with those two," I waved a hand at the door, "and everything else, but I don't care. I don't care how long it takes before we can trust each other the way we used to, or how long it takes before you can walk again. I don't care. I'm going to fight, for you, for us. Are you?" Brock's eyes were shining as he looked up at me.

"Yes," he breathed, "hell yes." I smiled.

"Good."

"But Grace..." he swallowed, "I'm not... it's gonna... half my face is burnt off."

I stared down at him. "Brock Rumlow, I'm going to say this once, and once only. If you ever imply that I give a damn about what your face looks like _ever again_ , I will walk out that door, and I will not come back. It's insulting to both of us. Are we clear?"

"Yes ma'am," he said gruffly, and I smiled.

"Good." I shuffled my chair up to beside his head, slipping my arm under his to rest my hand on his chest as I lay my head down beside his shoulder. "Now you should get some more rest," I said. He hummed, turning his face, and I tilted my head to look up at it, running my gaze over his closed eyes for a second before closing my own.

.

.

It was dark when I woke, instantly calmed by the gentle rise and fall of Brock's chest under my fingers. Wincing at the tightness in my back and neck, I sat up, glancing at my watch with a sigh. Brock's eyes fluttered, his gaze focussing on me immediately.

"Hey," I whispered, unwilling to disturb the quiet peace.

"Hey," he replied, just voice just as quiet as my own.

"I've gotta go," I breathed, hating even the words, let alone the idea. "I need to go have a shower, and then get to work." Brock frowned a little, his eyelids crinkling.

"What day is it?"

"Technically, it's still Sunday," I told him, "but not for long." He let out a long groan, his eyes closing again, and nodded. "Are you going to be okay?" I asked, and he cracked an eyelid again.

"I'm a big boy, I think I can handle it," he said. I scowled, but resisted the urge to swat him.

"You know what I mean," I said, waving a hand towards the door.

"I'll be fine," Brock said, catching my meaning at once. "They need me."

"Do they?"

"Should I be offended?" he asked, and I rolled my eyes at him. "Fine, I'm useful to them." _For now_. I was sure that he thought it too, but neither of us said it.

"Okay," I said, grabbing my bag and returning to his bedside. "I'll come see you at lunchtime, and then I'll be back after work."

"Okay," he agreed, and I leaned over him, pressing a quick kiss to his mouth, ignoring the feel of the bandages between our faces.

"See you later," I breathed.

.

.

I went through the routine of things I'd been neglecting at home, though it felt odd to be putting washing on, and emptying the bin. Every few seconds I would look round before I remembered what was missing. I caught a few more hours sleep, and then drove to work, unsure of what I should do when I got there. Did I tell them that my boyfriend was in the hospital? Did I ask for some time off? Or did I just keep my mouth shut. I wasn't going to say what had happened to him. The quick scans of the internet had shown me enough of the hatred and fear that was spreading. Trust was at an all time low, projecting who Brock had been working for was probably not a good idea. I sighed as I parked, throwing open the door with more force than was necessary. Best to keep my mouth shut. There was no one here I was close enough with to question if I started leaving at lunchtime. The hospital was actually closer to here than to home, so it wouldn't take me long to get there and back. And with Brock essentially out of a job, I needed to keep things here steady. Part of me felt horrible for even thinking that, but the rest of me was practical enough to push the guilt aside.

.

I counted down the minutes until lunchtime, slipping out the door as quickly as possible and driving straight over to the hospital. Brock was awake when I pushed open the room of his door, and his eyes brightened as they met mine.

"Hi," I murmured, returning to my chair. "How are you feeling?" The slight roll of his shoulders showed me all the frustration that was hidden under the bandages on his face.

"Bored," he said after a slight hesitation, and I gave a wry smile.

"Any news?"

"Doctor came by," Brock grunted, "said they're going to change the bandages and 'review progress'" he made the air quotes obvious without moving his fingers, "this afternoon." I nodded absently, not sure whether this was good or bad.

"How do they feel?" I asked cautiously. Brock gave another half shrug, and gestured to the IV beside his bed.

"Don't hurt much with all this stuff, but…" he trailed off, and I waited. "Everything feels tight," he said eventually. "Stiff."

"It'll get better," I said, trying to make either of us believe the lie, but I knew from his silence that he saw right through it. He didn't call me on the falsehood though.

"I've been watching the news," Brock said, changing the subject as he nodded up to the corner behind me. I looked round and noticed the little television in the top corner for the first time. "Rogers moves fast." The bitterness in his tone had me reaching for his hand, stroking the little bits of skin visible round his wrist and forearm.

"You did the right thing," I said, but he didn't reply, and I couldn't think of anything else to fill the silence.

* * *

 **A/N: Okay, explanation time... I haven't been working on this for a couple of weeks because of exams, ( :( ) but they're over now ( :D ). Unfortunately, my laptop had decided that it's hard drive is going to fail. Luckily (as in thank-every-God) I managed to make copies of all my work to a memory stick, so I haven't lost anything, but it does mean that this free week before I go home, when I was hoping to get lots done, I'm now left without a keyboard to type on... I managed to finish off this chapter for you guys in the library, because I didn't want to go another couple of weeks without giving you anything, but I don't know when the next chapter will be coming.  
** **Hope you enjoyed anyway, and there will be more coming at some point in the future.**


	10. Chapter 10

The afternoon at work dragged just as much, if not more, than the morning had. I kept thinking of all the things I should have said to Brock at lunchtime, then dismissing them all as stupid, as things he would just have laughed at, and the worst part was that I didn't even know if I was right. When had I started doubting his reactions? I turned the radio on, gritting my teeth and hoping the noise would drown out the incessant circle of my thoughts. It helped, but only a little.

I was a bit later leaving than I would have liked, when my boss brought in some samples with only half an hour of the work day remaining. I scowled at his back, ran them as fast as I could, and left only ten minutes late. The days were still getting longer, so there was plenty of light in the sky when I arrived at the hospital and hurried up the stairs and along the corridors that I now knew well to Brock's room. But someone was already there. It was lucky that I noticed the blue scrubs first, or I probably would have snarled at the figure leaning over his bed. Instead, I managed to swallow down the angry sound in the doorway, though I was sure Brock caught my fading glare as he looked up. The nurse, with his back to me, was blocking my view of Brock's body, but from the surface of the trolley beside them, I could guess what was happening, and I hesitated.

"Can I come in?" I asked tentatively, unsure of how sensitive Brock was going to be.

"If you want to," he replied, after the slightest pause, and I heard the challenge in his tone. I thrust my chin out at him before stepping inside. The nurse looked round, and I realised with a pang of embarrassment that she was a woman, just with very short hair. She smiled as I moved round to the other side of Brock's bed, and looked down at his bare right arm. I didn't know what I'd imagined, whether this was better or worse than the expectations I'd had. Patches of skin, dotted around from the back of his hand all the way to halfway up his bicep, were blistered and weeping, specks of black around the edges of the red and white. The rest of his skin was pink and looked sore too, but that was nothing compared to the dark oozing spots.

Brock was watching my face, waiting for a reaction that I refused to give, keeping my face blank and impassive as I ran my eyes over the wounds once more before raising my eyes to his face. He looked scared. I'd seen Brock cool and calm in the midst of fights, but he looked scared now as he waited for me to speak. I didn't, just smiled at him, and pressed my hand onto his chest, right over his heart, feeling it pumping under my fingers. Neither of us spoke, but we didn't look away either, until the nurse finished bandaging his arm, said some things we didn't listen to, and left.

"That's the best of it," Brock said quietly. "The rest is worse, and—"

I silenced him with a squeeze of my hand on his chest. "I love you," I reminded him, and a little of the tension left his face, though his smile was a few shades away from genuine.

"You should have run months ago," he murmured. "I don't deserve you." Tossing my hair, I sat down in my usual seat.

"Am I that good?"

"Yes." There was no hesitation before his answer.

"How good am I? What do I deserve?"

"Anything."

"Anything? Do I deserve to be happy, with anyone I choose?" I kept my voice clear as he nodded. "And what if I choose you?" His head stilled. "Don't I deserve to be able to do that?" This time, his smile was more recognisable.

"When did you get so clever?" he asked.

"Oh, I've just been good at hiding it," I teased him back, smiling as I crossed my legs under me, but a knock on the door made us both look round before he could respond.

.

.

I never had Brock's instinct for trouble. Everyone I passed on the street, if I met their eyes, I would give a small smile, but Brock knew, just by looking at them, if they were bad news. He would nod politely to those that passed his test, but put himself firmly between me and any that didn't, flexing his shoulders until they looked aside as they passed. I could never tell the difference between them. But the woman with flame red hair standing in the doorway now… she put me on edge, and I knew that I would be tense even if she wasn't staring at Brock with an expression that was unreadable, but intense enough to scorch metal. I wanted to snarl at her, to place myself between them so her eyes couldn't burn into him anymore. Yet I also wanted to cower back in my chair and whimper. I wanted to be so far away from her that I would never even think of her face again.

"Oh good," Brock muttered, letting his head flop back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling above him.

"You look like shit," the woman said, without moving from the door.

"I got a building dropped on me," Brock snapped, then seemed to bit his own tongue before sighing. "Why are you here?"

"To talk."

"Really? Somehow I highly doubt that. Has Rogers given up on me so quickly?"

"Steve was never going to have this conversation. It would never even have occurred to him. But it needs to happen," she shrugged, and Brock rolled his head sideways to look at her again.

"What conversation would that be?"

"The practical one." She finally moved forwards into the room, dropping a pile of files at the bottom of Brock's bed. I flinched, though he didn't, his eyes flicking to me for a second before looking back to her as she flipped open the top one and thrust it at him. He raised an eyebrow, gesturing with his two injured hands. She hesitated for the barest second, and I took the file, shifting closer and holding it up for Brock whilst I glared suspiciously over the top at her. Totally un-phased, she crossed her arms as she watched Brock. I looked down at the file I was holding, blinking several times before I realised that it wasn't just my tired eyes. Nothing made sense; it was just a jumble of letters, scrawled randomly across the page. Brock was frowning, as his eyes flicked across the page.

"When was this written?" he asked.

The woman shrugged. "It should say on the front," she replied. I flipped the file closed, scanning down to the bottom, where a date several months previously, in the middle of January, was printed. I glanced at Brock, who nodded, and I opened the file again, watching as his eyes moved far slower this time, mouthing to himself as he read, clearing making far more sense of it this time.

"Where did you get this?" he asked, without looking up.

"One of the files I dumped onto the internet," she replied, red hair swinging forwards as she shrugged again. "Some were clean, but most are encrypted. That's where you come in."

Brock grunted. "It's a route change," he said slowly, "for something in Thailand." Frowning, he read a little further. "A shipment of weapons, and explosives, going to Bangkok." He looked up, and met the woman's gaze.

"Any mention of who they're going to?" she asked, and he looked back down, lips moving again as he scanned slowly down the page. I watched the woman watching him, her face still perfectly blank.

"No," Brock said eventually, and I lowered the file until it was resting on the bed beside him as the woman nodded, then held out a hand for it. I closed the file and handed it back to her, watching her tap it against her fingers.

"There's a lot more of these," she said, and Brock snorted.

"I don't have much else I can do," he pointed out, and she gave a slight tilt of her head in acquiescence, still tapping the file against her fingers, and glanced at me before speaking again.

"SHIELD is dead. Everyone's moving on, into different companies, all the assets are being dissolved. Soon there'll be nothing left, so officially, you're not employed anymore."

My eyes darted between them, though neither face gave anything away. "And unofficially?" I asked.

"Unofficially… you'll still be paid each month. Just don't bother looking too hard at where it comes from."

"Oh, that'll be useful for the tax forms…" I muttered before I could stop myself. The other option was to let it become obvious that I was very glad to be sitting down already. Brock didn't make a sound, but I saw the movement of his stomach that meant he was holding in a laugh.

"That'll be taken care of," the woman said, after a moment's pause, and I sobered instantly in that second of hesitation, which spoke so loudly. Rogers's threats reverberated through my head again, and my hands clenched. From the sideways glances, I could tell that they'd noticed, but neither of them commented as they exchanged a look that held far more meaning than I could read.

Eventually Brock nodded slowly. "Fair enough," he said. The woman nodded back and held out another file.


	11. Chapter 11

Unlocking the door, I had one shoe off before I'd even stepped through, dropping my keys into the bowl waiting as my ears heard the sound of voices. I paused, but recognised Brock's tone at once. Only partially reassured, I slipped off my other shoe and headed down the hallway, searching out the sound of his voice, marvelling, even after months, at the softness of the carpet under my feet. The new apartment was on the other side of the river, further away from the city, but it only added fifteen minutes to the time it took me to get to work, and it was on the ground floor, and had a walk-in shower.

Brock was pacing around the living room, round and round the sofa with his uneven strides, crutches left abandoned in a corner. He'd avoided using them as much as he could get away with, and I'd resorted to threatening him with a wheelchair when he was being particularly stubborn. He glanced up at I paused in the doorway, his mouth quirking halfway towards a smile as he saw me. After four months, the sight of his new face didn't surprise me anymore. The left side wasn't much changed, it was the right side that was marred and warped, the skin puckered and still slightly red. His right ear was almost gone, and he couldn't hear much out of that side anymore. But he could still see, and smile and talk. He was still my Brock. Even when he was scowling. Unfortunately, the severity of his expression just made me want to laugh, so I quickly moved through the room to the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge to hide my smile.

"No, I think you're perfectly capable," Brock was saying, the slight wheeze that was ever present in his voice made more noticeable than normal by his annoyance. "But there hasn't been enough time for me to show you half the things we used. Tell him to wait, at least until I've gone through the rest to make sure there's nothing we've missed."

"It's a bit late for that," a female voice said, and I grimaced, feeling my shoulders curl in at the sound of Natasha Romanoff's voice. I'd never become comfortable around her, despite the constant contact between her and Brock, and I was pretty sure she didn't like me either. "He's already gone in," she continued, as I eyed the speaker in the middle of the table distrustfully.

"Shit," Brock swore, his left hand twitching up for a second before he stilled the movement, scowling even more. I looked away. The burns on his upper arms made running a hand through his hair painful now. He could raise his arms straight out in front of him, but lifting them any higher made his lip curl in pain, though I suspected he continued to try whenever he went to the gym.

"Right," Brock sighed, "send me anything you got useful information off, and I'll go through as much as I can."

"Anything in particular that should raise flags?" Romanoff asked, and I could hear the shifting of files. Brock closed his eyes. His left hand twitched again, but he compromised by rubbing his face with his right hand instead.

"Any mentions of 'lukewarm'," he said, "or 'Newton Abbot', 'escapism procedure', 'Albuquerque resin', the word 'fictitious' anywhere—"

"Wait, 'Albuquerque resin'?" There was a moment of silence, where Brock dropped his hand, and we both stared at the speaker.

"Where?" Brock snapped, moving closer to the table and leaning forwards over it.

"Just before the codes... here... I'm sending you a picture," Romanoff said, and Brock turned away as the laptop in the corner gave a notification. He opened the picture, and there was another moment of silence in the room as he scanned down the page.

"Shit," he breathed. "Shit! Get Rogers on the comms, now!"

"What? What does it mean?" Romanoff said, and I could hear furious moment at the other end.

"It means he's about to blow himself up," Brock said grimly. More silence.

"Damn it, Steve, come on," Romanoff hissed, and then there was a crackle, and another voice, whispering but clearly audible.

"Natasha, what is it?" Rogers hissed.

"Where are you?"

"Just approaching the main door," Rogers huffed. "Why?"

"Don't enter the code," Brock snapped, limping back to the speaker. There was a moment of quiet, with only the sound of breathing reaching us.

"Rumlow." There was no question in his voice, no invitation to explain, just flat hatred.

"It's a kill switch, the code will trigger explosions all around the door," Brock said, apparently choosing to ignore his tone. "You need to enter it backwards." He glanced over his shoulder, back towards the laptop. "Put in 2487, NOT 7842." Rogers didn't respond.

"Steve?" Romanoff asked.

"Approaching the doors now," Rogers said, in a tone that brokered no argument. We all waited in silence, Brock's hands curling into tight fists on the table top. We all listened to four distinct beeps as buttons were pressed, then there was a thud clunk, and a screech of metal before the connection cut out.

"What happened?" another voice issued from the speaker, and it was only then that I realised Romanoff wasn't alone on the other end. "What did he do?"

"He put it in backwards," Brock said wearily, hanging his head as he leant forwards, and I saw his hips twist as he took his weight off his bad leg.

"How do you know?"

"Because he'd be dead if he hadn't," Brock snapped, and he hung up on them.

.

.

Turning away from me, Brock sat down on the arm of the chair, stretching out his left leg with a small groan he no doubt assumed I couldn't hear. Putting down the bottle of water, which was still clutched in my tight grip, I moved around to lean against the wall in front of him, just enough distance between us that he could stare at my feet if he wanted, but it wouldn't hurt his neck to look up at me. He chose the former, his expression dark, staring right past me, and through the wall as well, his hands flexing unconsciously on his thighs. I held my silence, waiting, and eventually he looked up, and gave an imitation of a smile.

"How was your day?" he asked, and I grinned.

"Highly uneventful," I said, and he smiled properly now.

"Sounds nice," he mused. "I should try that someday." Shaking my head, I pushed off the wall, taking a step forwards and leaning down to plant my hands on either side of him.

"Oh yeah?" I murmured, touching my forehead gently to his. "Why stop at a day? What about a whole week? Where nothing happens... just you... and me."

"Yes please," he hummed.

"You don't think it sounds boring? All alone..."

"You are such a tease," he growled, and I grinned, tilting my head to the side and kissing his burned cheek before returning my lips to his mouth. He returned the kiss with enthusiasm, but I felt him stiffen, and pulled away. It only took me a second to recognise the expression on his face.

"Rogers," I said, in a tone that made it clear it wasn't a guess. His mouth twisted down, and I smiled, pulling back, taking one of his hands with me. "C'mon, I can talk and cook," I said. He let out an actual whine as I pulled away, but then frowned, looking over at the clock.

"Crap," he groaned, "I meant to cook before you got back. Must have lost track of time."

I laughed. "It's okay, I don't mind." He still looked put-out, but didn't object as I pushed him towards the cutlery drawer. "So..." I began, as I rummaged through the fridge, "he put the code in backwards." There was a pause in the clink of metal as Brock hesitated.

"Yeah. But I doubt he'll admit it to anyone."

"So what about all those people?" I frowned, waving a hand towards the speaker.

"Romanoff will convince them," Brock said, glancing over at just the right time to see me scowl. "You don't like her, do you?" he laughed.

"I don't _dislike her_ ," I corrected him. "It's more that she doesn't like me. And I'm just... I don't know what side she's on."

"Yeah, that's a pretty good summation," Brock snorted. "She's changed sides more than anyone else. She understands my position better than any of the rest of them." I closed the fridge, leaning against it as I looked at him.

"I think they all understand it now," I said softly, and he looked up, going still at my expression. "You told him. You _saved his life_. I think that's a pretty strong message."

Brock grinned, trying to blow it off. "Maybe I should've kept my mouth shut. All they do is annoy me, y'know," he said, but I strode straight across the kitchen and shut him up with my mouth on his. Because even though I trusted him with my life, even though he'd never lied to me since he'd woken up, answering every single one of my questions, even though I _knew_ he wasn't working for Hydra anymore... I couldn't stop the small, silent doubts. But, like I'd said, this was a pretty strong message. Undoubtable.

.

.

Dinner had been forgotten impressively fast, as I proved I loved Brock no matter how burned his body was, and he proved his injuries weren't nearly enough to slow him down. We lay in the semi-darkness, the thin sheet kicked off us, even that layer too much in the August heat. In all honesty, it was uncomfortable to be curled so tightly together, but I didn't care about that, and from the way his right arm was wrapped around me, I didn't think he minded either. I traced my fingers slowly down Brock's chest, pausing at each of his scars. It was a favourite habit of mine now, to find a new one and ask for its story, knowing he would tell me the whole, unadulterated truth, no matter how gruesome or cruel it may be. As my fingers wandered further down his chest, recalling all the tales held in the injuries under my hand, I wasn't sure I wanted another one. Maybe I'd been testing him, without realising it, for all this time, waiting for him to refuse to tell me something, waiting for him to lie. I wasn't waiting for that anymore. He'd proved himself, so many times over. So I lifted myself up, rolling over to hover above him. He was waiting, expecting the question, but I didn't ask it, just smiled, kissed him lightly on the cheek and on the lips, then lay back down and closed my eyes, my hand still spread over his chest, but will a little more space between us. Brock's fingers came up and stroked over mine, a little clumsier than they had once been, but still gentle.

"Hungry yet?" he murmured, and I snorted. We'd been busy through the time I would normally have been hungry.

"Not really?" I said, then cracked open an eyelid. "Are you?" He grinned, shaking his head and I closed my eyes again. We could get up and cook in a little while... just a little while...

.

.

I awoke in the middle of the night, blinking in the unexpected darkness, with my stomach rumbling. With a grin, I rolled over onto my back, stretching as I felt the pull of muscles I'd been using whilst my stomach thought I should have been eating. I disagreed with it. Twisting round onto my stomach, I rested my chin of my arms as I watched Brock sleep. His face was turned away from me, his burned cheek facing upwards, and I took my time running my eyes over his ruined skin, the mangled remnant of his ear. I could see how his face might be shocking, frightening even, but even when the bandages had come off for the first time, I hadn't turned away. I hadn't run. He was mine, and I was his. _For now_.

Closing my eyes I turned away, hating the treacherous little voice inside me. Yes, for now, because there was a limit on our time. We didn't talk about the threat hanging over Brock, even when Rogers, and Barnes, came up between us. I didn't want to talk about it. I was still hoping for a way out, looking for a chance to run; I hadn't accepted it as inevitable, though Brock seemed to have done so.

Rogers was _wrong_ , whatever he'd done, Brock didn't deserve to pay such a harsh price for the past, not when he was doing so much to help now. I'd lost track of the number of Hydra compounds and bases Brock had helped them take down, though it was less now that it had been in the first couple of hectic weeks. As for the endless reams of documents that passed through, I hadn't even bothered trying to remember them. Even the ones that weren't encoded were so full of hidden messages and meaning that they seemed to end up going through Brock anyway, though I could tell his usefulness really came in with the ones that looked like nothing but garbage. I'd known Brock was a fighter, I'd always known that, but I hadn't realised just how many codes and translations he was also carrying around in his head. He'd been teaching them to Romanoff for a couple of months now, and said she picked them up well, but there were so many, it was still a work in progress. Some of the codes even Brock didn't know, the information hidden in those documents so secret it was above his level of knowledge to extract it, but the sheer volume of things he did decipher for them made up for that, in my opinion. He couldn't help what he didn't know.

A slight jerk in the bed pulled me out of my thoughts, and I looked back around as Brock twitched again, his hands clenching as he tossed his head. I was up on my knees in a second, fingers itching, though I knew from experience not to reach out to him.

"Brock," I called, my voice soft but firm. "Brock, it's okay, you're safe, you're alright." His body went still for a moment, and I thought he'd woken, but then he gave one huge thrash, flipped over, and rolled off the bed, landing with a huge thud on the floor. I nearly fell over my own legs as I scrambled round, and was only halfway round the bed, when I heard him move again.

"Ow," he groaned, and as I rounded the last corner, I saw him roll over onto his back with a wince.

"You okay?" I asked nervously, and he nodded.

"I found the floor," he said, and I grinned, covering my mouth to hold in my laugh as he sat up. I held out a hand as he prepared to push himself to his feet, but he grimaced. "It's fine, I can do it," he said.

"And I'm already here to help, so suck it up," I told him. He gave me a mock-glare that dissolved after less than a second, and took the hand I offered, using it to steady himself as he heaved himself up, turning to sit on the edge of the bed. I sat beside him, curling one leg up under me.

"Are you okay?" I asked again, though it was a different question. He nodded, but didn't look round at me. "The same one?" I asked. Again he nodded, but he shuddered too. Gently, I wrapped my arms around him, and kissed his shoulder. He turned sideways, wrapping an arm around my waist, and I could feel the deepness of his breaths as his shaking subsided slowly. "It's okay," I whispered into his skin, "I've got you, you're okay." Leaning down, he rested his face on the top of my head, and we held each other in the darkness.

* * *

 **A/N:** **Yay, new chapter... this is the first of the "skippy" ones, so we're missing time here and there. Not sure how long these will last, but got at least a couple more to go. Next one will probably be quite short, but I've already written a first draft for it, so should be up fairly quickly at least. Then we get onto something I've been waiting to do ;) :D :D**

 **Thanks to everyone who is reading and following, and reviewing! 3**


	12. Chapter 12

Brock sat in front of the keyboard, flexing his fingers nervously as he stared at the secure messaging system on the screen, his eyes flicking to the clock in the bottom corner every couple of seconds, constantly reassuring himself that it was fine, that he had hours before Grace was due home. Eventually, he shook himself and set his hands to the keyboard. If he couldn't even do this bit what hope did he have for the actual thing?

 ** _BR: You there?_** He hated how long it took for him to type now, having to place every finger so carefully to hit the right key. Yet again he considered skipping this part altogether, just disappearing, but he knew they would notice, and come after him. That would probably spoil it a little. So he waited, rubbing his stiff hands together as he watched the screen.

 ** _NR: Yes._** Romanoff's reply was painfully short, but Brock didn't let it put him off, setting his fingers back to the keyboard at once.

 ** _BR: Can we talk?_**

Again, there was a pause before her reply.

 ** _NR: What do you think this is?_**

Brock rolled his eyes at her snark, flexing his already-stiff joints.

 ** _BR:_** **_I want to go off grid for a few days. Possibly out of the country._**

The pause this time was slightly longer, and Brock could almost picture the red-head turning away from whatever else she'd been doing, focusing fully on the digital conversation.

 ** _NR: Why are you asking me?_**

 ** _BR: Thought I'd have a better chance with you than with Rogers._**

 ** _NR: You'd have a better chance with anyone than with Rogers. He won't like it._**

 ** _BR: I know that._**

 ** _NR: Where do you want to go? For how long?_**

 ** _BR: Not sure yet. Haven't worked out that far._**

 ** _NR: WHY do you want to go?_**

Brock took a deep breath, cracking his knuckles before he told her. There was the longest pause yet after he was done.

 ** _NR: So it would be both of you going?_**

 ** _BR: Yes._**

 ** _NR: Steve hasn't changed his mind._** Brock grimaced, noting her change back to using 'Steve'.

 ** _BR: I know what, which is why I want to do it now. He's got to be getting closer, and I don't exactly have time to waste._**

 ** _NR: Having a death threat hanging over you really isn't a good reason to do this._**

 ** _BR: I'd be doing this without it._**

 ** _NR: Would you?_**

 ** _BR: Yes._**

There was another pause. He'd been honest; he would have been doing this, no matter what the circumstances. He'd been a fool not to do it before, but it had always seemed too complicated, too much like dividing his loyalties. And Grace didn't seem to have fully realised what was going to happen. Brock was dead, living only on borrowed time. He knew that, had accepted it. She hadn't, not really. With a sigh, he began to type again.

 ** _BR: Look, I'm not asking you to forget everything that's happened, I just want to do this properly, without having to rush it. I just need your permission. Please._**

 ** _NR: Did you just ask for permission? And use the word please?_**

 ** _BR: If you show this conversation to Rogers, I will personally come after you, and then you'll have to explain to him why he doesn't get to kill me himself._**

 ** _NR: Glad you understand how that would turn out for you._**

 ** _BR: Natasha, please._**

This pause stretched for so long Brock nearly sent another message before holding himself back. That wouldn't help

 ** _NR: No._** The single word had a ringing finality about it. Brock sat back, disappointment and determination flooding through him. That was fine. He could work something out locally, he was sure. He'd told himself to expect this anyway.

 ** _BR: Okay, I understand_**. He typed it slowly, sending the message with a sigh and turning away. When the notification of a reply came through, he almost didn't look at it. He knew any apology wouldn't truly be sincere anyway.

 ** _NR: No, I won't just give you permission. I'm going to help. For Grace._** Brock sat, staring at the screen, reading the message over and over again.

 ** _BR: You serious?_** He finally managed to type with shaking fingers.

 ** _NR: When am I ever not?_**

 ** _BR: thakyuo_**. Brock's fingers flew over the keyboard in a way they hadn't done for nearly a year, his stiff fingers moving too fast for accuracy.

 ** _NR: You got any ideas at all about where?_** Brock took a deep breath, and allowed himself to smile at last.


	13. Chapter 13

It had taken a long time before I could drive home on autopilot again, but after just over a year of going to the new apartment, I could switch off when I drove, keeping my eyes on the other cars, rather than the road signs. Even the Friday afternoon traffic couldn't kill my good mood. I had a whole week off, my carefully hoarded vacation finally being used, at Brock's suggestion. He was right of course, it would be wonderful to have some more time together, to just relax, especially after what had happened a month ago. The anniversary had been hard on Brock. It had been too long since either of us had been able to switch off, to forget about the rest of the world. A week without the stress and monotony of work would be very welcome, even if all we did was sit and watch movies together. I might be able to persuade Brock to go out somewhere once or twice, as long as it was to somewhere quiet, and it didn't involve alcohol.

Slipping the car neatly into our parking spot, I climbed out and drew in a long breath of warm air, the weather surprisingly warm for the start of April, not that I was complaining. The cold winter had made Brock's leg and hands stiffen painfully, though he'd tried to hide it as best as he could. Unlocking the door, I smiled to myself as I closed it behind me, anticipating not opening it again for several days. I'd barely kicked off my shoes when Brock popped his head round the doorframe from our bedroom, grinning broadly, the rest of his body sliding into view. I returned his smile with slight trepidation.

"Should I be scared?" I asked before he could speak.

"Terrified," he shot back. "You need to pack."

I cocked my head to the side. "I need to what?"

"Pack," Brock repeated, enunciating the word clearly. "Wheels up in two hours." And with that, he disappeared back into the bedroom. I scrambled after him.

"Wait, pack for what?" I said, stopping in the doorway and staring at the half full suitcase on his side of the bed, and the empty one on mine.

"Mostly cold weather, I think, though not too bad," Brock said, throwing a thick fleece into his suitcase. "But we don't need to take towels." I blinked.

"Umm, okay. What's going on?"

Brock finally stopped, turning around to look at me with a pitifully worried expression. "I thought we could go away together. Just for a week. And it's not that far. But... I mean, of course we don't have to. I just thought you might want..."

"You organised a vacation?" I asked. He nodded, still looking worried. "For us?" He nodded again, then staggered backwards as I flew towards him, nearly knocking us both over with the enthusiasm of my hug. "That sounds wonderful," I said, after pulling back, and he grinned again.

"Make sure you pack thick socks," he advised, as I pulled away and turned to my own suitcase.

"Where are we going?" I asked, and there was a pause as Brock hesitated.

"It's meant to be a surprise..." he said, though his tone told me enough, and I smiled.

"Okay, surprise it is," I said, pulling open drawers and transferring stacks of clothes to the suitcase, taking a mental inventory as I did so, trying to think of all the things I needed to take. I carefully arranged pants and t-shirts, thick sweaters, underwear and lots of socks. Grabbing my wash-bag, I opened the top drawer of my night stand and pulled out all my various creams and pills, remembering to dash into the bathroom and grab my toothbrush.

"Passport?" I asked, hesitating by the doorway, but Brock shook his head, so I moved on, going back to my bedside cabinet and opening the next drawer. I hesitated. "Just a week?" I checked with Brock, who nodded.

"But if you don't like it," he hedged quickly, "we can always come back sooner." I laughed and shook my head. I hadn't seen him this nervous before. Glancing at the calendar on the wall, I counted in my head, then closed the drawer on the sanitary products.

"I'm sure I'll love it," I reassured Brock, who gave a smile that was slightly less strained.

We were all packed and ready to go in just over an hour - fridge empty, bins taken out, bags loaded into the car.

"Where am I going?" I asked, as I turned the ignition. Brock could still drive, but with his stiff fingers and bad leg, I could tell he wasn't fully comfortable behind the wheel anymore. I didn't mind driving though.

"Over towards the airport," Brock said, and I pulled off. No passport meant somewhere in the country presumably, but airport meant plane, which meant not local, and warm clothes meant north. I stopped trying to guess, to let him have his surprise, focusing on driving, following his guidance to a back entrance, where we pulled into a tiny car park, sheltered by convenient ridges and trees, through which I could just make out a small black aircraft. Brock exchanged words with a man in a fluorescent jacket while I extracted the bags from the trunk, and then we carried them together across the tarmac and up the ramp into the back of the plane. My eyebrows rose at the empty space, no one else in sight, as Brock kicked our bags under the seats along the wall.

"It'll only be a couple of hours," Brock explained, as we sat, and strapped in.

"How did you manage this?" I asked, sure the only explanation I could think of would be wrong. Brock hesitated, then turned to face me in his seat, his face very serious as he took my hand.

"If you want me to explain, I will," he said, "but for now, just... please don't? I just want... I don't know... just don't think about it yet."

"Okay," I said slowly, "keep your mysteries." There was a slight hum, and a shudder, then the engines roared into life, surprisingly loud in the small interior. Brock took my hand as we rose, slightly shakily, into the air and soared away. I craned my neck forwards, looking up towards the front, trying to see who was sitting in the pilot seat. They must have been short, for I couldn't see their head over the back.

"Who's flying this thing?" I asked Brock, having to raise my voice to be heard.

He grinned. "You don't want to know."

Our destination was a field. Literally a field. I blinked as I looked around. It was very pretty, surrounded by mountains and trees, but a field nonetheless. I gave Brock a quizzical look, but he just grinned and limped off. Following him hastily, I saw we were heading towards a gap in the trees, where the glint of sunlight on glass resolved itself into a car as we got closer. The keys were sitting on the trunk, which made me frown a little, but we were in the middle of nowhere... Almost throwing his bag into the backseat, Brock got into the driver's seat, and turned the ignition as I climbed cautiously into the other side, having to pause, thinking about which side the seatbelt was on, but I didn't ask if he wanted me to drive.

"Where are we going?" I asked as we pulled off. Brock hesitated in a way he had done in over a year, and my stomach twisted. I'd never recognised it as what it was before, but its return after the lengthy absence showed me the truth at last.

"If I say you'll see when we get there, would you accept that?" he asked, and I only half forced a smile.

"Still a surprise, huh?" I said. "Alright." So I stared out the window for the rest of the journey. It wasn't a waste of time. Through gaps in the dense trees, I caught glimpses of glorious views of mountains and valleys, as Brock guided the car along the winding roads, that seemed barely large enough the merit the name. It was as if we'd left the world being, stepping into another universe, where we were alone, and everything was wild and free.

"Do you trust me?" Brock asked as he slowed the car, just enough cheekiness in his voice to take the seriousness from the question.

"Yes," I said, looking ahead to where a turning off the 'road' appeared to lead into an even smaller track.

"Close your eyes," Brock instructed, and I sit, letting my lids drop shut, tensing in the seat with anticipation, my fists clenched in my lap. "I love you," Brock said, and I smiled, relaxing a fraction, and having to fight to keep my eyes shut.

"Love you too," I whispered back. The car bumped gently along and I chewed on the inside of my lips, waiting. Eventually, after what seemed like a long time, we rolled to a stop, and I heard Brock put on the handbrake before his hand closed over one of mine.

"Open," he breathed, and if it was possible to hear a voice tremble in such a short word, I did then. I opened my eyes, and stopped breathing.

The little single-story house was nestled amongst the trees like something out of a fairytale, the wooden cladding blending perfectly into the forest around it, the setting sun glinting off the windows. I blinked, just so I could see it again. Two steps lead up to a narrow porch running along the front, and round the right hand side as well. Past the house, off to the right, I could see more light reflecting from through the trees, flashing on water.

"My god..." I whispered. "It's... It's so... I..." I opened the car door, poking my head through the gap to see it for real, sliding the rest of my body out more slowly. Brock's reluctance to release my fingers told me that he would happily have crawled through the car after me rather than let go, if he still could have. Part of my brain wanted to laugh at that, but I quietened it, not wanting to be distracted from the view in front of me. I heard Brock open his own door and come around the back of the car to put his hands gently on either side of my waist.

"Do you like it?" he asked. I crossed my own arms to take his hands and draw them further around me.

"It's perfect," I whispered. The breath of his laughter tickled my neck for a moment, but he soothed the spot with a kiss before pulling away.

"Want to take a closer look?" he murmured, and I nodded eagerly. Chuckling, he pulled away, and I followed him back to the back doors, stowing my anticipation to take my own bag before he could get it. He scowled a little, but I raised an eyebrow, and the expression melted off his face at once. We moved up towards the little house together. With every step I half expected the illusion to shatter, but it didn't, and a grin spread over my face as I climbed the steps, feeling the wood under my feet. The door was unlocked, and I pushed it open.

The whole space was open, with light streaming in through the huge windows to the west, broken only but the trees as it fell across the room. Left was the kitchen and bathroom, sharing the only wall that stuck out into the space, presumably to give more cupboards, though an island in the middle ensured there was no shortage. To the right was a cozy corner, contained by a huge sofa, the walls lines with shelves heaving under stacks of books and movies. Past the sofa was the bedroom area, made up with white sheets, set off by light pine furniture and windows on either side. At the far end, straight ahead of us, was another set of door, made of glass, looking out through the trees to the bank of a lake. I dropped my bag onto the floor as Brock shut the door behind us.

"Woah," I breathed.

"You like it?" Brock asked.

"It's beautiful," I said, and it was true. Each different area had its own distinct feel; the bedroom with splashes of light blue in the pillows and paint detail on the dresser; the grey in the tiles I could glimpse through the door into the bathroom; the darkness of the leather and wooden shelves in the snug; the black of the kitchen counters; but it was all held together by the openness and the creamy white present everywhere. It looked like something out of a magazine, but more practical, like it could be lived in without having to wipe everything after touching it.

"Wanna go for a walk before it gets dark?" Brock asked, nodding through the other doors. After the time stuck sitting on the plane, I nodded eagerly, my grin just as big as his. I crossed the room eagerly, fiddling with the door until it opened and jumping straight down the three steps in one bounds, feeling the softness of the forest floor beneath my feet, carpeted in old pine needles. Spinning in a circle, I threw my arms out to the side, head back as I gazed up at the pink and blue sky. Brock laughed as he joined me and I staggered a little as I came to a halt, breathless but grinning. I reached for him and he took my hand, ducking in for a kiss as he came up beside me. Hand-in-hand we made our way down the slight slope towards the lake, Brock's swinging stride minimising his limp. The lake was breathtaking, the expanse of water rippling in the gentle breeze, reflecting the colourful sky. Brock tugged on my hand, directing my steps to the side and we moved along the beach, just above the line of pebbles, to where a fallen tree had been carved out to form a bench. We sat in silence for a few minutes, watching the water, Brock's arm over my shoulders.

"It's so quiet," I said, "no people. It's nice." Brock hummed in acquiescence; I felt the vibrations through his chest, though his muscles felt tense under my cheek.

"I need to tell you something," he said, shifting his shoulder a little, after another minute of silence. Taking the cue, I sat up and turned to face him, not liking the severity of his expression, the twist in his mouth, the tightness round his eyes. I waited.

"I want you to know, no, I need you to understand, that when I... what I was trying... if I'd..."

I reached out a hand and covered his mouth with my fingers, cutting off the babble, staring at him until he took a deep breath in through his nose and let it out again slowly. Taking my hand away, I smiled a little in encouragement. He took another breath, and started again.

"When I joined Hydra," he began, and I had to fight to keep my face clear, "I thought I was doing the right thing. It all sounded right; I thought we were going to make the solve all the world's problems, and that it was worth doing anything to get there. I was wrong. We changed things, but none of it was for the better. The fate of the world shouldn't be decided on the whims of a few."

 _I know,_ I wanted to say. _I know you know that, I forgive you._ But I knew he wasn't finished, so I held my tongue.

"But for all their ideals, I never felt like I was changing the world, except for the times when I made you laugh. I knew, from the moment I first heard you laugh, that you were more than I ever deserved. But that didn't stop me loving you." Brock's dark eyes were earnest, and I was biting my tongue again to stop myself from blurting out that I loved him too, that he needed to stop sounding like he was saying goodbye.

"I never had the right to ask you this, even before..." his face twitched, "before everything. But I love you. I love you more than the rest of the world, more than my own life."

 _Oh my god. Brock, what are you doing?_ I couldn't move, couldn't breathe as he pulled his hand out of mine, slipping off the bench and turning to face me as his knee hit the ground. _Don't scream_ , I told myself firmly, and just about managed it, though I had no idea what to do with my hands, or how to make my lungs work again. His hand disappeared into his pocket and I closed my eyes for a fraction of a second.

"Grace Alicia Mitchell," Brock said, snapping open the box that I refused to even glance at, because I didn't want to look away from his face, "will you marry me?" I choked on air as I stared down at him in shock.

"Yes," I whispered, "hell yes." Brock took my hand with utter reverence, sliding the ring gently up my finger, where it fit perfectly, the dying sun sparkling off the simple diamond.

"I love you," he whispered, looking up at me with shining eyes.

"I love you too," I said, and now the tears fell and I didn't try to stop them. Brock surged to his feet as if he still had two undamaged legs, but his kiss had all the force of a butterfly. I was the one who wrapped myself around him, and held his lips to mine, and forgot about the rest of the world.

* * *

 **A/N: Hope you enjoyed, lemme know what you think, any and all reviews welcome and very much appreciated!  
Many thanks to Scarlett Barnes for her help with all the Americanisms I got wrong!**


	14. Chapter 14

Brock was several clouds above the ninth. He was practically giggling as we weaved back through the trees, still with our arms wrapped around each other, moving slightly sideways to avoid having to loosen our grip. He was supporting me just as much as I was supporting him. Not until we got back to the little house did we break apart slightly, though I kept hold of Brock's hand as I leapt up the steps and opening the door, throwing a wide smile back over my shoulder. I was five steps inside before I spotted the difference, and came to an abrupt halt, my outstretched hand behind me slamming into Brock's chest and forcing him to stop too. On the sleek blackness of the kitchen counter top, right in the middle of the island, was a small black object, with a sickeningly pink bow on top. It took my fear-numbed brain a few seconds to recognise it as a camera, but even then I didn't relax. I craned my neck, sweeping as much of the room as I could without moving my feet. Eventually I had to release Brock to check in the bathroom, looking behind the door for intruders, but not reassured by the empty rooms. Brock, meanwhile, had crossed to the kitchen, and picked up the camera before I could open my mouth in warning. My spine was tingling as he tossed aside the bow, looking up at me and smiling.

"It's okay," he chuckled, gesturing me over as he flicked the camera on. I approached warily, even step measured before I took it. Brock tilted the screen to show me an image of a sheet of paper with thick red pen scrawled across it.

 _Have a good week. N._

I looked up at Brock, thoroughly confused and still worried. He read my expression only too easily, taking my hand and pulling me over to the sofa, setting the camera down on the table.

"I didn't want to just disappear," he explained, "so I told Romanoff that I wanted to do this, and she helped me set all this up." I glanced at the camera. _Romanoff. Natasha Romanoff._

"She... helped you?" I said, my voice only barely above a whisper. Brock nodded, looking a little sheepish now. "Where are we?"

"North Michigan," he replied at once. "Friend of a friend of a something owns this place I think..."

"Is she here? Did she fly the plane?" I asked, my intuition leaping up.

"Yes," Brock said slowly, "and no. She is here, has been for a few days. As far as Rogers knows, she's investigating a lead just over the border, in Canada, but she's really being getting stuff ready here, the car and things like that."

I frowned lightly. "And the plane?"

"That... ah, that was an autopilot system," he admitted.

My eyes bulged. "A what? Are you saying a program was flying that thing?!"

Brock grimaced. "I said you didn't want to know. But it does a very good job." I scowled, but let it go, reaching forwards to pick up the camera a little gingerly, still not convinced it wasn't hiding a bomb, and flicked through the rest of the pictures. My jaw dropped. They were of us, on the beach, image after image of us walking, sitting together, Brock talking, him down on one knee before me, and the pair of us embraced afterwards.

"I hadn't realised she was going to do that," Brock admitted, with a wry laugh.

I snorted, looking through them more slowly. "These are actually pretty good," I said grudgingly, pausing on one where only our silhouettes were showing, leaning on each other with the lake in the background.

"Who would have guessed?" Brock chuckled, and I smiled with him. "You hungry?" I nodded against his shoulder, flicking the camera off and putting it back on the table before rolling up and padding over to the kitchen. The hardwood floors felt odd beneath my socks, so different from carpet. Brock didn't seem to notice as he followed me to the fridge, which turned out to be fully stocked with everything from steak to an avocado. I raised an eyebrow at the fruit, then went still as I looked down at the door. Milk, a couple of bottles of wine, and several beers looked up at me and I swallowed, suddenly feeling sick. Brock, with stunning intuition, pushing the door closed and moved around me to take my hands.

"I'm sorry, Grace. I really, really am."

I nodded. "I know," I whispered, without looking up. "It's just... God, I was so scared, coming back and you weren't there..." Brock wrapped his arms around me, and I held onto him. "Don't ever do that to me again," I muttered into his shoulder. "We get through things together."

"I promise," Brock said, and I knew he meant it. "I wasn't thinking straight. Just knowing it had been a whole year... Everything changed so much." I pulled back so I could press my forehead against his.

"Not everything," I reminded him. "I love you. Just as much today as I did yesterday, as I did fourteen months ago. Just as much as I will tomorrow, and every day afterwards." I felt Brock smile as I kissed him.

"What would I have done without you?" he breathed, and I kissed him again.

"Good thing you don't have to find out," I said, and opened the fridge again, and we began cooking together.

I tried to relax that evening, sipping my glass of pink wine while Brock nursed a single beer, but for all the smiles and jokes and laughter between us, I struggled to keep my mind from returning to the image of him, hunched in a dark corner of a bar, with twelve empty bottles in front of him. It had taken me an hour and a half to find him, and I'd nearly had to carry him out to the car. After the slurred, incoherent babbling had subsided, he'd spent the next hour keening softly as he cried, before crawling to the bathroom to throw up repeatedly. I'd seen Brock drunk before, but never to that level, and I hadn't needed to ask why he'd suddenly felt the need to get so smashed. It was lucky that the next day had been a Sunday, because neither of us had slept in the night. 7am found Brock, vomiting finally over, curled up in the very middle of our bed like a child. Unable to bear moving him, I'd just gone and sat on the end of the couch, where I'd slept through the day, oblivious to all the things I should have been doing, until I was woken as he sat down next to me. We'd both cried then, and cuddled for thirty minutes without saying a word.

Eventually, I gave up trying to shut out the memory. Pushing up from the couch, I smiled at Brock's inquisitive glance, unlacing my fingers from his as I left him to flick through the TV channels. I wandered over to the bathroom, slipping out of my clothes and throwing them onto the bed as I went, and closing the door gently behind me. As Brock had promised, there were towels hanging up on the heated rail, and I rubbed my fingers over their softness as I cast my eyes over the shower controls, and spun the dial to let water start gushing out, holding my other hand under the spray as I waited for it to warm up. I didn't have the patience to let it become comfortable, but plunged under the water when it was merely bearable, gritting my teeth in a silent growl at the sudden tingling of my skin under the water that was tepid at best. With a sigh, I crossed my arms against the tiled wall and leant forwards, resting my forehead on them and letting the gradually heated water run down my back. What I thought about in those moments, I'm not sure. Cocooned behind the safety of my eyelids, I let it all go, blinking in surprise when the door opened behind me.

"Room for one more?" Brock asked as I looked round. For a moment, I just stared at him. My fiancé. I smiled, and nodded. He was in the door in a second, snapping it shut behind him, and I turned the spray down as I reached out a hand to pull him in, grinning at his confidence in my answer that had apparently let him undress before asking. The mostly unblemished skin of his chest and legs made the rippled burns on his face and arms stand out even more, rippling as he moved towards me.

"Hi," I whispered, moving aside so there was room for both of us, deliberately kissing his scared cheek.

"Hey," he replied, barely loud enough for me to hear over the water as he eased his arms slowly under the water, barely wincing. "You okay?"

"Better than," I grinned, and I meant it.

I learned one very important thing very quickly that week. I should never play card games with Brock. Not ones where I had to bluff anyway. I held my own at Rummy, couldn't stop giggling when he tried to teach me poker, and was thoroughly thrashed at Bullshit. I'd thought it wouldn't work because there was only two of us, but Brock seemed to know exactly what I'd put down without even glancing at his cards. We played three games, and I vowed never to try again.

We watched endless movies, sprawled out or curled together, only half watching the screen. My favourites were the action ones, where Brock would keep up a running commentary about how they used the wrong sort of explosive, or how that punch should have broken Jason Statham's hand.

Another surprise, though apparently Brock had known about it, was that when I turned on the stereo, it was all my songs that blared out, courtesy of Natasha apparently remotely accessing my iTunes library somehow. Neither of us could sing worth a damn, but neither of us cared either.

It was a week of paradise, and as I stood by the car, gazing back at the little house, I didn't want to leave. It was a physical reluctance, a twisting in my stomach, and a prickling in my eyes. If we left, we'd have to go back to the world. Back to work, people, worry, threats and animosity from Rogers. Here, it was just me and Brock. Turning around, I nearly opened my mouth to beg Brock to let the fantasy become real, to stay. But as I met his eyes, I knew that he wanted the exact same thing, but wouldn't let it happen. He wasn't going to run away from something he'd decided he deserved a long time ago.

We got married a week after we came back, just the two of us in a nearly empty room with the minister and some witnesses at the back. Neither of us had any family to invite, Brock's only relatives being some cousins in Australia that he didn't talk to, not that it mattered to us anyway. This wasn't a big event, it was just a formalisation of something we'd known for a long time. I was his and he was mine. We signed the licence, took it back to the dmv and drove home with stupidly big grins, fell tangled together into bed for a couple of hours, then watched half a city explode out of the sky on the news in the afternoon.


	15. Chapter 15

A year of marriage had been good for both me and Brock, we'd settled into new routines, Brock slowly accepting himself to the point where he would leave the house twice a week to go to the gym, and even accompany me out to the shops, or for a meal. The stares continued, but we'd become accustomed to them, just staring back until the offender looked away. We had lives again, together and apart, each with our own set of friends. Life was good, in a way it hadn't been for two years. Romanoff continued to call on Brock for help on evermore trivial documents, but with less regularity, and her part in Brock's proposal had opened a channel between us, to the point where I would chat to her when Brock didn't get to her calls first, and I wouldn't feel like she was waiting to murder me in a slow, painful manner.

Saturday afternoon, I unlocked the door of the apartment in a good mood. My self defence class this morning—which Brock had finally persuaded me to sign up for—had gone well, to the extent that I thought I only had one new bruise today. Afterwards, I'd been out to lunch with Carol and Marianne, which predictably dissolved into them both ogling every guy who walked past the window. I'd pleaded blindness, on account of my wedding ring, which Brock and I had gotten round to sorting out a few months ago, but that excuse had only lasted for about five minutes until we began debated the merits of long vs. short hair. From there we'd settled down to general moaning about work, which passed an enjoyable hour.

Even the cold as I walked home couldn't chill my mood, but I knew I was in trouble the minute I stepped through the door.

He was waiting for me, pumping the canon slowly, eyes narrowed. The place looked like a scene from Dexter, with plastic sheeting all over the walls and floor. He'd clearly had time to prepare. I shut the door slowly behind me.

"The war," he said slowly, "is about to begin."

"Safe space?" I asked, keeping my voice as cool as his.

"Bedroom and kitchen. You have one minute... and counting." With that, he turned and stalked out of sight. Letting myself grin, I hurried into the bedroom, brushing aside the plastic to get at the door. Inside, I dumped my stuff, and quickly riffled through Brock's drawer, eventually finding, hidden away at the back, a t-shirt that was two sizes too big for him. With a wicked smile, I pulled it on, and darted out of the room. I stopped in the doorway to the living room, where he stood, eyes flaring at he took in my change of clothes.

"Wearing my clothes will not protect you," Brock said, with a veil of coldness that I could see right through. "You will lose." I just raised an arrogant eyebrow, and caught the water canon he threw at me, pumping it like a shotgun.

"We shall see," I challenged, and the war began.

.

.

He had me thoroughly pinned in the corner, cowering behind the sofa, in less than fifteen minutes, though he was dripping wet too.

"Surrender," Brock called, threateningly, though his voice shook from suppressed laughter. "You cannot win!" I hide my answering grin behind the couch, then swallowed it down, fixing a look of grumpy defeat on my face as I leaned my water canon against the back of the couch, out of sight. Both hands above my head, I stood up slowly. Brock watched me emerge with a wicked grin.

"Good effort," he said, fairly, but I wasn't done yet. There was one more trick in the bag. In one quick movement, I grabbed the sides of his too-big shirt, and pulled it off over my head. Brock's gaze sharpened, and his canon dropped a fraction. I grabbed mine at once, swinging it up and firing in one action, soaking him from chest to face. Spluttering, Brock wiped his face off and threw me a dirty look that was totally wasted as I had to lean on the sofa to hold myself up, the force of my laughter threatening to bring me to my knees.

"Cheater," he said sourly. I had a million responses, most revolving around him being a sore loser, but was still clutching my sides, and unable to get a full breath to utter them. Tossing his water gun aside, Brock advanced on me, and I stumbled backwards, still laughing as my back hit the wall and he filled the space in front of me. My hands, held up in useless protection in front of me, gripped his shoulders, but I didn't push him away, and his mouth met mine halfway, stealing the laughter from my lips. For the next half an hour, we fought a different sort of battle, no less wild and frenzied, but this time with no talk of winners or losers.

.

.

I'd initially been doubtful about Brock's suggestion of putting a tv in our bedroom, but had to admit, I was glad he'd talked me round. It was nice, being able to longue around and watch without having to move, though it wasn't until Brock flicked onto the news and I saw a face I recognised that I sat up, and actually started listening to the reporter, outside a cathedral in England.

"You think they'll actually sign?" I asked Brock, watching the footage of Steve emerging with a blonde woman.

"I dunno," Brock sighed, as the reported rehashed everything we'd already heard about the Sokovia Accords. "I would have expected Stark to be the last one to go all pro-government, but... And Rogers isn't exactly trusting these days."

"They won't actually split though?" I frowned, and Brock gave a half-shrug. I lay my head back, biting my lip. I wasn't sure where I sat on the Accords anyway, but the idea of _half_ the Avengers being subject to regulation seemed even more terrifying. There had been a lot of death around the group, but did people really think it would have been better without them? The explosion in Lagos had killed 15 people, but how many more would have died if the group of mercenaries had escaped with a biological weapon?

.

.

We had a lazy Sunday morning, forsaking our ritual of having the news on during breakfast to curl up with pancakes and watch children's movies. The predictable arguments of which one ended up with an eventual agreement on Mulan. My thoughts kept drifting away from the movie, to all the jobs I would have to do this afternoon; food shopping for the coming week, another lot of washing, folding up the plastic sheets we'd hung up to dry the previous evening. Only once I'd gone through the whole list twice in my head did I let out a huff of frustration, spring up and find a pad of paper, writing them all down before returning to Brock's side, meeting his lazy grin with a half-smile and roll of my eyes. He just chuckled as I settled back into his side to watch the heroine blow up a mountain.

We were just switching off the TV and clearing up the plates when Brock's laptop began to trill, the loud noise familiar to me as the notification for a video call. Brock scowled over the back of the couch at it.

"It's Sunday, piss off," he said grumpily. I laughed.

"Don't think they can hear you yet," I said, bumping my face affectionately against his as I took his plate out of his hands and nodded him across to the loud machine. Muttering, he stumped across the room, his limp more pronounced in his anger, until the pain made him give up on the gesture, and he settled into a gentler stride. Shaking my head, I took the plates into the kitchen, listening to him sit down and accept the call.

"Romanoff," he said, by way of greeting. "Your signal is terrible, where are you?"

"Berlin," I heard her reply, though the static quality made the word hard to discern.

"What the fuck you doing there?" Brock said casually, swivelling on his chair as I came back into the room, seeing Natasha's eyes flick up as she saw me. I smiled, wondering if the resolution would be good enough on her end for her to tell. Brock was right, the quality was terrible, the picture all fuzzy and wobbling erratically. I'd walked halfway across the room before I realised she hadn't responded, and changed course slightly, so I could see over Brock's shoulder. It took a few more seconds for the image of Natasha to look back up at the camera.

"They found him," she said.

For a moment, none of us moved, except for Natasha's eyes, flicking up and down from the camera. I couldn't see Brock's face; his back was to me, as if he was gone already. My knees buckled, and I staggered towards him, catching myself on the back of the couch to stop myself falling to the ground.

"How?" Brock asked, and his voice was empty. Natasha flashed him a look.

"You haven't seen the news?" I guessed from her next expression that Brock had given her a glare, and she continued. "There was an explosion at the signing of the Accords in Vienna. Cameras caught Barnes nearby. Steve got wind of a tip off from the public and tracked him down in Bucharest. Colonel Rhodes caught up with them, and they were all arrested."

"All?" Brock questioned her sharply.

"Barnes, Steve, Sam, and a new player. Prince of Wakanda, T'Challa. His father was killed in the explosion, so he's actually King now."

I gave up on trying to remain upright, sliding down to sit on the floor instead.

"They're being brought back to Berlin right now. How soon can you get here?" she asked. Brock's head turned away slightly as mine snapped up.

"Excuse me?" I snarled.

"Barnes is going to be interviewed by a psychologist," Natasha explained. "It was mentioned that it might be useful to have someone watching who worked with Barnes... before."

"Mentioned by who?" I growled. "And why can't you just set up a fucking video link?"

"I can be at the airport in 20 minutes," Brock cut across me, and I gaped at his back.

"There'll be a jet waiting," Natasha said, taking advantage of my silence.

"Make sure there's two seats," I said, and Brock finally turned to face me.

"You are _not_ coming."

"You bet your ass I am."

"I'll see you in 10 hours or so," Brock told Natasha, making to close the call.

"Two seats," I reminded her, making Brock pause as he glared at me.

"I'll text you the details," Natasha said, and the screen went blank. Brock stood up. I crossed my arms.

"Grace—"

"Don't bother," I snapped, turning away. He got to the door at the same time as me, slamming it shut and holding his hand against it.

"It could be dangerous," he growled. " _He's_ dangerous."

"A fact I'm sure they're intimately aware of, and will have taken measures against," I said. "You're not going alone."

"Yes, I am."

"No, you're not," I snapped, my voice rising.

"It's just to watch them interview him," Brock said, trying to sound exasperated, and failing. "Nothing going to happen—"

"Yes, it will. Rogers isn't going to back down now, and you'll just roll over!" I shouted, rounding on him, and he drew back, blinking. "You won't even try and stop them, because _you feel guilty_!" We stared at each other, me breathing hard, him not breathing at all.

"That's not true," Brock said, quietly.

"Isn't it?"

"No! Look—" he lowered his voice back down to normal levels. "Of course I feel guilty, Grace. What sort of person would I be if I didn't? But I said I was going to fight for you, for us, and I meant it. I still mean it!"

"I know," I said softly, "but I can't let you walk into the same building as the man who's wanted you dead for two years. Please don't ask me to let you do that alone."

"This isn't something we can fight."

"Yes, it is. We haven't fought it enough, because we always had the excuse that they might never find Barnes. But they have, and we need to fight now, and we're going to do that together."

"It's not that simple!"

"Isn't it?!"

"No! I'm not going to just let anything happen, okay. I promise. Just... please, I need you to trust me now."

"This isn't a question of trust," I said gently. "I love you too much to let you walk away, not knowing if it's the last time I'll see you." We stared at each other for a moment. "Come on," I said, pulling open the door. "We should get ready."

"You're not coming," Brock said, but there was no strength left in his voice, and I just kissed him before going to throw together a small backpack of essentials.

.

.

The entire room was lights and computers and glass. Brock, Natasha, and Tony Stark stood in a line, eyes fixed on the monitor showing the close up of Barnes face. None of them looked round to where Rogers was watching hungrily from the other side of a sheet of glass.

"Tell me these _measures_ are a bit excessive," I murmured, from half a step behind Brock, protecting his back from Rogers's frequent glares. Brock didn't answer, reaching back to take my hand, though the warmth of his palm couldn't quite chase away the chill in my spine as I eyed Barnes's thick metal restraints. The door opened, and another man, wearing glasses, slipped inside.

"Are all psychologists that creepy, or it is just him?" Brock muttered.

" Mr Barnes. I've been sent by the United Nations to evaluate you. Do you mind if I sit?" the psychologist said as he moved forwards, the words slightly coloured by his Eastern European accent.


	16. Chapter 16

"Your first name is James?" the man asked as he sat, eyes fixed on Barnes, who wasn't looking back at him. "I'm not here to judge you. I just want to ask a few questions. Do you know where you are, James?"

"Who is this guy?" Brock asked Natasha, without taking his eyes off the screen.

"Theo Broussard," she answered at once. "He's from Switzerland."

"Uh-huh," Brock said disbelievingly.

"I can't help you if you don't talk to me, James," Broussard tried again, and Barnes finally looked at him.

"My name is Bucky," he said, and there was both fire and ice in his words. I couldn't resist a quick glance over my shoulder to see Rogers staring at the screen like he wanted to jump through it. Either that or start whining like a puppy, it was hard to tell which of the two.

"Tell me, Bucky," Broussard began, "you've seen a great deal, haven't you?" Brock's hand clenched around mine for a second.

"I don't wanna talk about it," Barnes said quietly.

"You feel that, if you open your mouth, the horrors might never stop," Broussard said, his face intent as he fiddled with the screen in front of him, no doubt making notes. "Don't worry, we only have to talk about one." The room went black.

The cameras were down, the lights turned off, the only remaining illumination came from thin strips of red light around the edge of the room, casting everyone's faces into eerie glows.

"Come on, people, get me eyes on Barnes," a man to our right spoke into a radio, pacing back and forth in front of the blank screens. Brock whirled around, eyes focussing on something past me, and then he was off.

"Stay here," he shouted back at me, as he burst out of the room, moving faster than I'd seen in a long time. I spun round, hands still reaching though he wasn't there, just in time to see the door close on a room that no longer held Rogers or Wilson.

"Well, that went well," I said, looking back at the blank panel of screens as Natasha and Stark followed in Brock's footsteps.

Brock leapt down the stairs, jumping three at a time to land on his good leg. Rogers and Wilson were ahead of him, his right ear caught snatches of their footsteps from below, then a door slamming shut. Wheeling round two more turns, Brock came to a halt outside a door with S5 emblazoned on the wall beside it. Carefully, he cracked it open, peering through the gap. He couldn't hear anything, and the darkness beyond concealed all movement, so he gritted his teeth, and slipped through the gap, letting the door shut gently behind him. He'd made it round three corners when he turned to the left and saw a man ahead of him. Ducking quickly back behind the wall, he glanced out cautiously. It was the psychologist, Theo Whatever, peering through a doorway.

"Hey." The weak shout came from Wilson, somewhere out of sight, and the psychologist turned at once. Brock took the chance, throwing himself round the corner and charging at the man, his leg twitching on every other step. He tried to run, but hadn't even gotten up to speed when Brock collided with his back, taking them both down to the floor. Heaving himself up on one arm, Brock grabbed the back of his head and pulled it up from the floor before slamming it back down again, as hard as he could. The man went limp beneath him as Wilson skidded to a halt, scowling down at the pair of them.

"Barnes?" Brock gasped, rolling over and stumbling to his feet.

"I dunno," Wilson said. "Gone." Brock cursed.

"Watch him," Brock instructed, before breaking into an uneven jog and rounding the corner. Wilson made indignant noises from behind him, but he didn't turn or slow down until he found his way to another set of stairs. Stifling a groan, Brock began to climb.

"This place has emergency generators, right?" I asked one of the men looking rather lost now all the monitors in front of him had gone blank. "How long before they come online?"

"Should only be a minute or so," he gabled, still pressing buttons in the hope of a miracle.

" _Should_?" I asked.

"Well, if the hard lines from the generators were cut..." he hedged, and I groaned.

"They couldn't cut all the hard lines, they're under three inches of concrete," another man chipped in from the next station. "Stop that, Tim," he said, swiping his colleague's fingers away from the keyboard. "What if it reboots while you're hitting something, eh?" Tim stilled his fingers with something of an effort, then let out a cry of joy as the lights flickered back on overhead. I leaned closer to his monitor as the cameras came back up, searching them for any sign.

"There!" the man at the other station said, pulling up a shot of somewhere with lots of tables, where Barnes was taking down men with lethal precision.

"Shit," I swore. "Where's Brock?"

"Who?"

"With the burns," I snapped, too impatient to say anything else.

"Here." It was Tim this time, pointing to an image of a stairwell.

"How do I get to them?"

"Out of here, turn left, second door is the stairs with him. Go up one more flight, right, then second left for Barnes." I was gone in a second, repeating the instructions back in my head, hitting walls as I sprinted along to the second door and threw it open. Brock was only half a flight below me, and his face darkened.

"I told you to stay," he gasped.

"Barnes is this way," I said, ignoring him and darting up the stairs with him hot on my heels, panting. Throwing open the door, I turned right and slowed, creeping along, ears pricked at the sounds of fighting. I paused just before the second left, glancing over my shoulder at Brock, who nodded once and moved in front of me, glancing round the corner and watching for a moment. Pulling back, he flattened his back to the wall and turned to me.

"If I tell you to stay here, will you do it this time?"

"Absolutely," I nodded emphatically, and he turned back, satisfied. "Probably."

"Grace..." Brock snarled quietly, and I held up my hands.

"If I think I can help, I will. If not, I'll stay put."

Brock pulled me round him so I could see through the doorway, letting me watch as Tony Stark strode towards Barnes, firing some sort of pulse from his palm, which was a familiar shade of red and gold. Barnes barely paused in his advanced, going hand to hand with Stark, who only just managed to slap his palm over the muzzle of a gun before it went off in his face. I barely muffled my gasping scream behind my hand before Brock pulled me back, holding tightly to my shaking shoulder.

"Stay here," he said again. "If he comes this way, run." He held up the gun Natasha had given him and pressed it into my palms. "You know what to do. Last resort only. Aim low." I nodded, teeth clenched.

"Be careful," I whispered, but he was already gone. I shuffled up to the opening and crouched down, poking one eye out to watch as Barnes dispatched two women, throwing the blonde half way across the room, before turning his attention to Natasha, latching his metal hand around her throat. I swallowed down my whimper as Brock hurried closer, but before he could act, another man came barrelling out of nowhere, knocking Brock aside as he slammed into Barnes, breaking his grip on Natasha. The pair exchanged a dizzying array of blows before a solid punch caught the newcomer in the chest, throwing him backwards, and Brock leapt between them

"Soldat!" he shouted, and Barnes twitched. For half a second he was still, staring at Brock, then he advanced. Brock gave ground easily, backing away as he continued to talk, a constant stream on words in a language I guessed to be Russian. Barnes slowed and stopped. Brock halted his retreat, drawing himself up and pointing back beyond Barnes before barking a few more words. Barnes turned at once, walked ten feet away, to the middle of an open space, wheeled around again and stopped. We all stared, waiting for what he would do next, but he just stood, still and silent, eyes fixed on Brock's midriff.

"What is this?" the newcomer said, his accent putting a purr on the words.

"Risky," Brock replied shortly, not taking his eyes off Barnes. I stood very slowly, slipping out from behind the wall, though I didn't come any closer. All around, people were picking themselves up, the blonde woman grimacing as she stood, rubbing her back, Natasha still coughing a little but upright. I tried not to look at the shapes of the people who hadn't risen.

"I didn't know you spoke Russian," I said, without taking my eyes off Barnes.

"I don't think that counted as speaking," Natasha wheezed. "More like butchering really." Brock scowled.

"Thanks," he said sourly, just as pounding footsteps announced the imminent arrival of Steve, who barrelled into the room, eyes finding Barnes at once.

"Bucky!" he cried, darting forwards. Several voices raised in warning together, but he barely seemed to hear them, and kept moving forwards until Barnes finally moved, turning towards him, falling into a slight crouch, hands raised and ready. Rogers skidded to a halt as Brock began to growl in Russian again.

"Not a good idea, Rogers," he snapped, as Barnes relaxed, turning away from Rogers, who looked torn between anguish and anger, the latter of which he directed at Brock.

"What did you do?" he spat, striding forwards.

"Easy, Steve," Natasha said. "Time and place." Still glowering, Rogers halted a few feet away. I found I'd mirrored his steps, coming up behind Brock, and glared back at him with equal animosity.

"Stop this," Rogers demanded. "Bring him back."

"I don't know how!" Brock snapped back. "It wasn't exactly something we ever wanted to do!" Rogers snarled, his whole body tensing, and I found my grip on the gun tightening, and wished it wasn't in my hands. It would be so easy... Gritting my teeth, I forced my hand to relax. The stand-off was broken when Wilson appeared, looking grim.

"They got him?" Brock asked at once, and he nodded.

"Yep. He's awake, and not happy." Frowning, Wilson came to a halt at the sight of Barnes immobile in the middle of the empty space. "Huh."

"Yeah," Brock agreed.

"So how do we snap him out of it?" Rogers asked again, impatient.

"Could try hitting him on the head," Natasha suggested, and we all stared at her. "It worked on Clint," she shrugged.

"We're not going to—" Rogers began, but Brock ignored him, walking straight up to Barnes, and punching him in the side of his head. Barnes staggered, going to one knee, turning with a snarl. Brock snapped his fist forwards again, and this time he dropped. Brock turned back to us.

"I guess we just wait for him to wake up now then?"

* * *

 **A/N: I'm not very chatty on here... if you want more rambling, random fic, film, and music recommendations, you can find them throughout the notes on the AO3 version of this fic... (link to my AO3 profile on my profile page)  
If you just wanna read, and for me to shut up, this is the best place for you to be, though no promises!**


	17. Chapter 17

The new room they carried Barnes to was smaller than the last one, but without the glass box and thick restraints. There was still a camera, and we all stood around the screen watching the sleeping form. Rogers didn't seem to notice that he kept edging closer every time he shifted his weight.

"How long's he gonna be out for?" Stark asked from his position lounging against the wall at the back.

"Dunno," Wilson answered, when no-one else did.

"Shouldn't have hit him," Rogers muttered grumpily.

"Well you weren't coming up with any ideas of your own," Brock snapped back. "Maybe you should have sung him a lullaby and seen if that worked." Rogers rounded on us, and Brock tensed beside me.

"Ummm," I said, since it seemed to be the most effective way on interrupting. Everyone else was closer to the screen, and had turned back to watch Brock and Rogers's confrontation. I was looking past them, and saw the movement first. Rogers followed my line of sight and whipped round, looking like he was about to jump through the screen as Barnes rolled over, pressing a hand to his head before staggering upright, immediately putting his back against a wall, his movements wary as he looked round, eyes finding the door and the camera.

"Looks like you're up," Brock said to Rogers as they both watched Barnes.

"What if it's not him?" Rogers asked, suddenly uncertain. Brock rolled his eyes.

"Well that sure as fuck ain't my guy, so I'm guessing he's yours."

Rogers needed no more encouragement, hurrying down the corridor and turning a corner as we all waited. It took another ten seconds or so before we saw Barnes tense, and the door opened slowly right afterwards. I grinned, admiring Rogers's restraint.

"Steve." Barnes's voice was rough, but his arms dropped from their defensive position. Rogers hesitated, closing the heavy door behind him, but not moving forwards.

"Which Bucky am I talking to?" he asked, seeming a totally different man from the one who'd been practically whimpering over the screen, his voice hard and distant.

"Your mom's name was Sarah," Barnes said. "You used to wear newspapers in your shoes." I couldn't help myself; I sniggered. Wilson threw me a disgusted look that I ignored in favour of watching Brock's mouth twitch.

"What did I do?" Barnes asked emotionlessly.

"Enough," Rogers replied, and Barnes looked away, crouching down before slipping his legs out so he was sitting against the wall. Rogers twitched visibly.

"I knew this would happen. Everything Hydra put inside me is still there. All he had to do was say the god damm words," Barnes said bitterly, and now it was Brock's expression that tightened.

"Who was he?"

"I don't know," Barnes shook his head. "I've never seen him before."

"People died, Buck. He set this whole thing up, just to get ten minutes with you, there's gotta be a reason for that, some connection."

Barnes shot a quick glance at Rogers, and a longer one at the camera. "Did you ask the Commander? Your big clean-up missed some parts." Brock didn't move an inch as Rogers looked away from Barnes just long enough for us to see his jaw clench.

"Not for much longer," he said, and I had to work to contain my hiss. Brock's hand found mine and he squeezed, a silent reminder of his promise. "You remember that?"

Barnes looked away, his shoulder shifting in what might have been a shrug. "It's fuzzy to start with, but most of it comes back."

"What did the doctor want?"

"He wanted to know about Siberia," Barnes said, after a notable hesitation. "Where I was kept, how to get there."

"Why?"

The glance Barnes gave the camera was much longer this time. "Did you catch him? Stop him?"

"Yeah, we got him."

Barnes shook his head. "Then it doesn't matter yet. There's enough mess already." His glance at the camera was very deliberately this time. Brock's hand twitched in mine and I knew he was thinking the same thing as me. Barnes was hiding things. Rogers clearly knew it too, but he didn't push anymore, moving over to the wall and sitting down at 90 degrees to Barnes.

"Is anyone hurt?" Barnes asked, after a couple of seconds of silence. "Any of your friends?"

"Nothing more than bruises, mostly," Rogers replied hesitantly. "Though there were a few other people." Barnes looked away, and Rogers actually rested his chin on his knee as he watched him.

"What you did," he said, "all of it... it wasn't you. You didn't have a choice."

"I know," Barnes said softly, before looking back at Rogers. "But I did it."

"Maybe we should turn the cameras off before they start cuddling," Brock muttered, and with the way Rogers was making eyes at Barnes, I thought it was a legitimate fear. "Where's the other one, the not-such-a-doctor?"

"Definitely not a doctor," Stark said, looking up from the phone he'd been tapping on. "Facial recognition got a hit. Colonel Helmut Zemo, Sokovian Intelligence."

"Sokovian?" Natasha asked, looking round, and Stark nodded grimly.

"He ran a covert kill squad, but nothing concrete to link him to Hydra."

"Yeah well, that doesn't actually mean anything," Brock said, his hand twitching in the way that mean he would like to run a hand through his hair.

"You think he might have been part of Hydra?" Natasha asked, and Brock shrugged.

"It was always going to be impossible to get them all, and how else would he have been able to bring the Soldier out? But..." Brock frowned. "He must have been pretty high to know how—"

"So there should have been some mention of him," Natasha finished.

"That's not the only explanation," Stark said, turning around his phone, and all of us, even Wilson, leaned in to see the picture of a red book with a black star on the front.

"What's that?" I asked.

"Not a clue," Stark said. "Full of gibberish, but Zemo had it on him." Natasha and Brock exchanged a look.

"You think it's..."

"Might be a way in..."

"You up for it?"

"You'd be better."

"I don't know all of them, I'd rather not speculate, given how long he might have had it. Any mistakes—"

"Hey!" Wilson cut Natasha off. "Share with the class?" Nat just looked back at Stark.

"Where's the book now?" she asked.

.

.

I was not happy. I didn't like this at all. Heart in my mouth, I gripped the edge of the table, staring very hard at the screen, not even breathing until the door opened and my husband stepped through. Zemo didn't look up, still tapping his fingers against the table as Brock moved forwards, waiting in silence. They were so still I checked the time in the bottom corner to make sure that the picture hadn't frozen. The seconds kept on ticking, and eventually, Brock pulled out the other chair and sat down, swinging his legs up to rest his feet on the corner of the table, making me wince. I knew that had to be painful for him, but the nonchalance air it gave him was very effective.

"So," Brock said, the roughness of his voice more pronounced over the microphone. "Colonel, I believe." The smile came very slowly to Zemo's face, but it was undeniably there, and it made me want to snarl. Brock didn't even twitch as Zemo raised his gaze, eyes running over Brock's scars. "Trust me," Brock said, "it's the prettiest face you'll see for a while." The lights in the room flickered, though ours remained firmly on. I glanced sideways to where Stark sat at the next computer, typing almost absently, barely looking at the screen. There was silence in the room as the lights dimmed again, brightened, then went out all together, leaving nothing but the dull red glow of the backups. Brock wasted no time, pulling his feet off the table and leaning forwards.

"You were a little overly dramatic, but useful none the less." He gestured a hand to the darkened ceiling. "Still resetting everything. So, to business." He dropped the red book onto the table between them. Zemo didn't flinch exactly, but his body tensed as his gaze wavered. Brock flipped open the book to a random page and ran his finger down the paper, pausing near the bottom.

"Mission successful, Soldier returned calm. Previous outburst seems anomalous. Possibly caused by young target or train. Recommend controlled exposure and avoidance if reoccurring." Sitting back, Brock raised his eyes to Zemo, who was looking at him with narrowed eyes. He reached forwards as far as his cuffed hands would go and flipped backwards, stopping and pointing to another part. Brock leaned forwards, his attention focused on the book for half a minute before he spoke.

"Attempt failed. Bad reaction in testers, death likely to be imminent." Snapping the book closed again, Brock pulled it back towards him, held under one hand. "Hail Hydra," he said simply, and the words sent shivers down my spine. Zemo snorted.

"Another man said that to me," he said, his rolling accent even more pronounced that it had been with Barnes, "right before he drowned. Like I told him, Hydra deserved to burn." Brock sat back, fingers tapping lightly on the book.

"You can read this. You used it."

Zemo raised an eyebrow, waiting.

"Seventeen years, I was part of Hydra. Every code I had clearance for, I knew by heart. 90% of other text encryptions I can break in an hour, but I'm willing to bet there are parts of this I can't decipher. So how did you?"

"Was."

"Huh?"

"Past tense. You _were_ part of Hydra."

"Hard to be part of something that doesn't exist. How did you translate this?"

"Experience. And patience."

"EKO Skorpion. Sokovia." Zemo just smiled, and though Brock's expression didn't change, I could recognise the frustration as he flexed his hands. "Where did you send him?" Zemo still didn't say anything. "It's not the best idea to leave the Solider running around. He can leave a bit of a mess." Still nothing. "What did you want? What do you get out of this? What's in Siberia?" Now Zemo's expression sharpened, and his smile broadened.

"Siberia is irrelevant. Ask him something else," he said, and now he turned, looking directly into the camera that he shouldn't know was still working. "December 16th, 1991."

Beside me, Stark went suddenly and utterly still.


	18. Chapter 18

Brock's voice continues behind me, the rough growl uninterrupted by Zemo, but I'm barely listening, having been spun round by the speed of Stark's movement. He's up and out of the chair in less an a heartbeat, and gone from the room even faster.

"What—?" Natasha stared after him for half a second before following. I gape after the pair but don't move.

"December 16, 1991," I whispered to myself, frowning as I turned back to the screen. Brock seemed to have given up, standing and turning his back to Zemo as he left, swinging the door firmly shut behind him. It took a few moments before he joined me, looking around as he entered the nearly empty room.

"Where'd they go?" he asked as he joined me, winding his arms round my waist.

"I don't know," I said. "Stark ran out the moment he mentioned 1991, and Nat followed him."

"Huh," Brock rocked from side to side as he thought, then turned to the men at the other computers further away. "Can you put the lights back on in there?" It was only a couple of seconds before Zemo was blinking in the sudden brightness.

"1991," Brock mused slowly, his eyes narrowing. "Isn't that... Oh, hell."

"What?" I asked as he pulled away, slipping round me.

"Where's the camera on Barnes?" he asked, and it came up almost at once. Rogers and Barnes were sitting in silence, taking it in turns to throw glances at each other. It was only seconds later that they both looked up, eyes fixed on the door. Barnes came to his feet first, Rogers a moment behind him, just before the door opened with the force of a canon, hinges screaming as it bounced off the wall. Stark stalked through like a predator, and Barnes was very quick to prove that it wasn't only the Soldier who could fight.

"Tony!" Rogers shoved his way between them, throwing Stark back, and Wilson and Natasha quickly appeared, holding them apart.

"You!" Stark spat at Barnes, who wasn't exactly hiding behind Rogers, but was unable to get past him. "December 16, 1991. It was you?!" Barnes went very still.

"Tony Stark?" Barnes asked cautiously, and Stark lunged forwards again, only to be shoved back by Rogers.

"Tony, what the hell?"

"He killed my parents!"

There was utter silence.

"That..." Steve's voice trailed off as he swallowed, clearly trying not to look over his shoulder, where no denial was forthcoming. "It's not—" He didn't get any further before Stark threw off Wilson long enough to punch him in the jaw. Rogers's head snapped up and he reeled back against the wall. Barnes dodged sideways to avoid getting squashed, his expression hard but without animosity. Wilson immediately stepped between Barnes and Stark, and Rogers shook himself and pushed forwards again. Stark sneered at the trio, eyes fixed on Barnes for a moment, then turned and stalked out.

I barely noticed Brock take my hand and pull me from the room, not listening to his words to me, to someone at the desk on the way out, to the cab driver. It wasn't until several long minutes of silence had passed that I blinked and looked round slowly. The hotel room was standard; large bed, desk with kettle and mugs, an occupied chair beside it. Brock had his elbows resting on his knees, staring down at the floor between his feet. I sat and watched him for another minute, letting the familiar lines of his body soothe my spinning head. I didn't move, but his head snapped up anyway, as if he'd felt my gaze.

"What—?" I began, but stopped, my shoulder slumping There was nothing to ask. _What happened? What do we do now? What are_ they _going to do?_ Brock heard them all, and just shook his head slowly. He knew as little as I did. I came to my feet before I'd even thought about it, crossing the space between us and falling to my knees between his open legs. I caught his mouth with mine, and the noise of surprise he made was muffled, before it petered out into a groan. It probably wasn't the best solution, but it chased away the silence of unanswerable questions for a few moments. We were both breathing harder when we pulled apart, but at least my head was straight again.

"So you speak Russian?" I asked, and Brock laughed, the sound vibrating through my chest in the best way. He responded with a string of words I couldn't even replicate, let alone understand. "I'm going to assume that means yes," I said, as I eased backwards, leaning sideways against his good leg a little, letting my fingers tickle over the burned skin of his arms. "And... code-breaking?" I quirked my eyebrows at him, and he shrugged, but with half a grin.

"It's surprising how much computers can't find, even now. But once you've found one, they get easier to see." Stretching his arms out, Brock laced his fingers with mine. "I was doing less when I got onto the Strike team. Too much time reporting on what Rogers was up to."

I shook my head, then sighed. "So what's going to happen now?"

Brock grimaced. "I have no idea. I mean... Christ... I dunno, I mean, it's his parents. It's fucking Howard Stark."

"You didn't know?"

"Hell no," Brock scowled a little. "There's a limit to how much I knew, and people die all the time. I thought it was a car crash. The whole world did. It was old news by the time I was getting anywhere." He sighed. "I didn't think he would have gone for Barnes straight off like that. Hopefully he'll calm down a bit with time, and they can sort it out somehow." We both jumped a little as his phone rang suddenly, and I stood up, moving back to the bed as he pulled out the offending device.

"Natasha," he said by way of greeting as he picked up, then fell silent, his face darkening with every second. "Oh hell," he swore, slumping back. "What's he aiming for?" There was another pause, and Brock closed his eyes. "Christ, that..." His voice trailed off. "And Rogers?" I picked at the embroidery on the throw as Brock fell silent again. "Yeah, no doubt. Okay, yes, soon. Right. Yeah." He hung up, and I raised my eyes, watching his expression tighten and I tried to distract myself imagining what curses were running through his head. With another huge sigh, Brock opened his eyes, and they were oddly empty.

"And?" I asked gently.

"Stark's made a public accusation," he said. I just stared.

"But... why? What's..." It made no sense.

"Romanoff thinks he's going to push for a trial."

"A trial," I echoed. "For the Winter Soldier." Brock nodded grimly, staring past me at the blank wall.

"It's going to rip them apart," he said dully, and there was no question in his tone.

.

.

Oddly, it was Stark that came to us first. We'd watched his accusations replayed on the news, the calm front cracking just enough to show the boiling anger underneath. Brock hadn't stopped pacing, glancing at his phone with every turn. We hadn't be prepared for a knock on the hotel door. Brock seemed unable to move, so I slid off the bed, ignoring his strangled croak as I pulled it open, braced for Roger's carefully controlled expression. But it was Tony Stark who met my gaze with surprising openness. He held my gaze for a moment before his eyes flicked past me to Brock, then back again. For a moment, I considered shutting the door again. But I couldn't close out the whole world, so I stood back and let him in.

"Stark."

"Rumlow-s. I assume you've heard."

"Just about," Brock said wryly.

"Then you know why I'm here," Stark said.

"Vague inkling. You want me to testify."

"And Rogers said you were stupid."

"You really want to bring him into this?" There was a beat of silence as they watched each other warily. I sat on my hands to keep from slapping one or both of them. Brock gave way first. "So, trial, huh?"

"Too many people have gone without justice for too long."

"Justice is a strong word."

"I can make you a good offer. No-one can make you testify, but how long will it be before they come threatening? I know everyone who's anyone. Whatever you want, it's done. You know what the Winter Soldier did."

"And I know what Barnes didn't," Brock returned, and there was another beat of silence.

"Is that your answer?"

"It means I'll consider it," Brock said, and Stark's mouth twitched sourly.

"Don't take too long," he said, and turned to leave.

"One more thing," Brock said, and Stark paused. "Zemo had to have figured it out from the Hydra files, the same ones that have been all over the internet for two years. You seriously never decrypted them?"

"Obviously not the right ones," Stark said.

"Obviously," Brock echoed, and Stark threw him one last look before he shut the door behind him.

"What did he mean about not being able to make you testify?" I asked at once. "Surely he can just subpoena you?"

Brock shook his head. "Fifth Amendment. Talking about anything I saw the Soldier do would be basically admitting I was part of Hydra, incriminating myself." I frowned, thinking it over.

"Would that work, be enough to withhold anything?"

Brock shrugged. "It would work enough."

I gave him another minute of silence to consider it all. "What are you going to do?"

"Nothing," he said, looking up with wide eyes. I frowned. "This isn't just about me. It's about us."

"I'm not the reason he came knocking on the door," I pointed out, "don't do something you'll regret. Do you want to testify against Barnes? You said yourself that he's dangerous."

"Maybe. But he's not guilty."

"Is he innocent?"

Brock didn't answer.


	19. Chapter 19

Natasha's call came a couple of hours after Stark left. Brock tried to persuade me to walk back, but I gave him a look and poked him in his bad leg. He tried to grumble as we climbed into the cab, but fell silent the moment it set off. By the time we arrived, his face was stony, set and pale. I pulled him to a halt before we went in, leaning my head against his gently.

"You know I'm behind you, whatever happens," I murmured.

"I know," he replied, just as quietly. "Remind me why I didn't pick the easy option."

"Which one was that again?"

"Oh, right." We laughed a little, but his arms were still tense, and his breathing fast.

"You're nervous," I observed, with slight surprise and trepidation.

"Is it bad that I don't want to see him?" Brock said in a hesitant whisper.

"No," I replied at once. "But you've already seen him."

"I saw the Soldier. Barnes... he could be something different."

"A whole other cookie," I said, and we both laughed again at the phrase we'd used for so long I'd forgotten the original joke, the sound coming easier this time.

"God, don't say in front of him," Brock begged.

"No promises," I grinned, stepping back and lacing my fingers with his. "C'mon, it's going to be fine."

"Uh-huh."

.

.

We passed Wilson making a phone call that seemed to involve him looking angry but not saying anything, at least for the few seconds as we passed him. He didn't even seem to notice us as we continued down to the next door and paused just outside.

"No going easy on them, then," I asked, and Brock's grin bordered on feral.

"Hell no," he said.

"Good." I pushed the door open and stepped inside first.

The room was stupidly large, and Barnes wasn't in it. Rogers had paused in the act of pacing, and Natasha was sitting at a table that could easily have taken 12. I hesitated as Brock shut the door behind us, eyes flicking round the empty walls, pausing on the other door, firmly closed at the end of the room before focussing on the other two people.

"I thought you signed the Accords," I said to Natasha.

"Doesn't mean I have to agree with Tony on everything," she shrugged. Rogers was looking at Brock as if he was tasting lemons. Brock didn't hold the gaze, but walked over to the table and took a chair on the side opposite Natasha. Rogers swallowed hard, and sat down as well, still looking pissy. I followed suit, sitting directly across from him so I could glare. The silence lasted for a painfully long time, with Natasha keeping her mouth firmly shut as she looked expectantly at Rogers, and Brock not doing anything to make it easier for him, just sitting and watching with slightly narrowed eyes. I wasn't even that subtle, drumming my fingers lightly on my arm as I glared at him. It wasn't until Rogers jumped slightly, glaring sideways at Natasha, who matched the look, that he cleared his throat.

"I don't know if you—" he began awkwardly, but Brock cut him off.

"Barnes is going on trial," he stated. "I can turn on a fucking television, Rogers. And Stark was faster than you."

"You know that you—" Natasha began diplomatically, but Brock shook his head.

"Don't help. I'm more than happy to wait," he said.

"Wait for what?" Natasha frowned.

"For Rogers to man up and ask for my help."

Rogers flinched, but swallowed, opening his mouth without lifting his eyes. "It would make a big difference—"

"I'm pretty fucking aware of that, but I'm not hearing any reasons _why_ I should stick my neck out for you," Brock snapped, and Rogers looked up, finally losing his cool.

"Because I haven't forgotten!" he growled. "You might be walking around with your nose in the air, pretending to help, but you're still the same piece of shit you always were, and it's still going to have the same outcome. I made a promise, and I fully intend to keep it."

Brock held his temper, though I could see his fist flex out of the corner of my eye. "Still not getting a reason out of there, Rogers."

"It'll extend your miserable life by a few more months!" Rogers snapped, bringing his hand down on the table top, which buckled. I sat back very fast. Natasha just looked the other way as if to hide the roll of her eyes. Rogers withdrew his hand from the dent in the metal without breaking eye contact with Brock. I was the one to break the silence.

"Not good enough," I said, meeting Rogers's stare with my own. " You've been holding that over us for two years. Two fucking years. If he does this for you, that's it. Clean slate. No more running when you call."

"You're over estimating his importance," Rogers said, sitting back, but for all his attempted poker face, his eyes had narrowed.

"Really?" Brock drawled. "So you've got someone else who saw him before? Had close contact and interaction with the Soldier? Can attest to his..." he frowned mockingly, "what's the phrase... 'state of mind'? I think not."

"What do you want?" Natasha said, her voice very calm, though Rogers threw a furious look at her.

"What she just said," Brock said, turning back to Rogers. "Leave me alone, and if you need something, you'd better come with a 'please' at the ready." For half a second, there was silence, and I let myself hope. Then Rogers shook his head.

"Not my call. It's not me you owe."

Brock sighed. "Then let's stop pretending he's not right behind that door."

I blinked, unable to stop myself glancing at the door at the end of the room. A single glance back at the pair on the other side of the table was enough to confirm that Brock was spot on, though I had no idea how he'd known. Rogers had opened his mouth again, frowning, when the door latch clicked, and the door opened.

Rogers half rose from his seat, but Barnes waved him down without taking his eyes off Brock, never looking away, even as he stepped through the door and closed it behind him.

"Commander," he said, in a voice that was rougher than I'd expected.

" _Soldat_ ," Brock said, and Barnes's eyes narrowed.

"Don't."

Brock hesitated. "Sorry. Habit." They stared at each other for so long that I wanted to snap my fingers just to break the eye contact, though there was no visible animosity on either side. Barnes looked away first, eyes flicking over me before settling on Rogers.

"Give us a minute?" he asked. Rogers's face twisted into a mild grimace, but Natasha rose at once, sharing a nod with Barnes before heading to the door he'd come through. Rogers was slower to rise, and I followed suit, pausing to squeeze Brock's shoulder and lean down close to his ear.

"Don't forget," I whispered " _cookie._ " I felt his body tremble with laughter, but he kept it silent. I walked round the table, the way that didn't require me to go past Barnes, as Rogers paused and murmured something in his ear that made Barnes nod, but push him gently on. Natasha held the door for me, and I left my hand on it until I felt Rogers take the weight, more from habit than intentional politeness though. Natasha turned on her heel and I glanced back to find the wall appeared to be transparent, so we could watch what was going on, as Barnes had obviously being doing before. I couldn't help reaching out to touch the cold surface. It was hard, but the image rippled a little under my fingers.

"Stark," Natasha murmured in explanation, and I nodded vaguely, more focused now on the room beyond. Barnes had half-turned, watching the door shut, and now his eyes flickered over the wall for long enough to make it clear he knew we were watching before turning back to my husband, who met his gaze steadily, but didn't move.

"I remember you," Barnes said.

"No shit," Brock returned warily.

"And Steve told me what you did," he continued, as if Brock hadn't spoken.

"Oh, good," Brock sighed, almost to himself, as I gritted my teeth, fighting the urge to glare at the man beside me. Barnes turned his back to us, moving along the table to the place where Rogers had dented the table.

"You know he wants you dead, don't you?" he said, crouching down and running his fingers over the dent while his other hand snaked under the table. "Not gone, not elsewhere, dead." With a groan and a screech, the table snapped back up, mostly flat, but still a little warped.

"Yeah," Brock said heavily, "I've got that vibe from him." They stared at each other for another moment. "And you?" Brock asked hesitantly. "I listened to you scream, and I walked away. Rogers is right; if anyone has the right to want me dead, it's you." Barnes looked away, staring along the length of the table for a moment, before looking back.

"I'm tired," he said. "I'm tired of killing, of all the faces I can't forget. I'm tired of having blood on my hands."

"I can't say sorry for everything I did," Brock said. "I'm not. I still know why I made the choices I did. But if there's one thing I am sorry for, it's what happened to you." There was a moment of silence, in which Barnes looked away again.

"Do you remember Russia?" Barnes asked. "St Petersburg, 2010?"

"Yeah," Brock frowned.

"There was a blizzard, we were stuck in that shack in the middle of nowhere for two days."

"I..." Brock swallowed. "I ignored you the whole time. Left you in the corner." He looked away as Barnes leant forwards, placing his mismatched hands on the table.

"It was better than what some of them did," he said, without a hint of apology in his tone. "Being left alone was the best I could hope for." Brock glanced back up at him. "So I don't care if you're sorry or not, or what reasoning you were following, or how pissy Steve is. You're not going to die because of me."

"Rogers—"

"He'll suck it up," Barnes cut across, very definitely looking sideways at us, and I felt the air around me shift as Rogers tensed. Barnes pulled out a chair and sat down opposite Brock.

"So," Brock said. "Trial, huh?" Barnes looked at him.

"You don't owe me anything," he said. " It would make a difference, but you're not obligated—"

"Oh save the speech," Brock said. "You can call it what you want, but we're far from square and I owe you a hell of a lot more than just this." He grimaced, and failed to turn it into a smile. "Besides, I'm so far off the rails now, might as well go all the way."

"It'll all come out," Barnes cautioned. "You know that, right? Anything left of Hydra will find out, and it won't just be you in danger when they come after you." He jerked his head at the seat I'd vacated. "Your girlfriend?"

"Wife," Brock corrected him, but Barnes didn't even flinch.

"Congratulations," he said coolly, "but the point stands."

Brock looked away. "I hope it won't come to that," he said.

"But if it does?"  
"Whose side do you want me on?" Brock snapped. "We'll handle it. Always have, always will. Neither of us are going to roll over."

Barnes nodded slowly. "Alright, fair enough." He sat back in his chair, his mouth twitching even as his eyes narrowed a little. "But if we're going to be seeing a lot of each other, I have to warn you; even if I call you 'Commander' every now and then... doesn't mean you get to order me around."

Brock grinned broadly. "Fine. But I get to call you 'Soldier' too."

"I prefer Bucky."

"And I prefer Brock, or Rumlow if you feel like it. We're both allowed slip-ups?"

"Fine, as long as it's not in Russian; your pronunciation is terrible."

Brock scowled slightly, but before he could respond, Rogers had wrenched open the door. He strode through, aiming straight for Barnes, and Natasha and I followed him back in.

"A word?" Rogers growled, and Barnes almost seemed to sigh before he got up and followed Rogers into a corner. Brock limped round the table and wound his arms around me, and I felt his shaky breath on my neck as I held him close while trying to listen to the men at the opposite end of the room, but their hissing whispers were too low for me to make out.

"Nice job," I whispered in Brock's ear, and he snorted softly as he pulled back, half turning to glance over his shoulder.

"Did you have to call him _cookie_?" he asked. "I'm never going to be able to look at him without laughing."

"Well, just hold it back in court, and the rest of the time he'll have to let you off it," I winked. "And anyway, was he?"

"Was he what?" Brock frowned.

"A whole other cookie?"

He snorted again. "You're never going to let this one go, are you?"

"Nope."

"You two are weird," Natasha muttered out of the side of her mouth, but I just grinned. I was giddy with excitement. Whatever Rogers and Barnes were saying, surely it was over now. Barnes had as good as said so. Brock was safe. No more threats, no more sideways glances, no more limited time.

"Are you sure you're okay with this?" Brock asked, and his face was so serious my elation actually slipped.

"With what?"

"He was right," Brock jerked his head sideways. "I testify, there's no more hiding, no more pretending to have been lucky. If anyone comes after me..."

I shook my head. "It's the right thing to do. And like you said, we'll handle it."

"But—"

"I don't care," I said firmly. "I'd rather have that than be always watching Rogers out the corner of my eye." Brock grimaced, looking over at the pair, and I tuned my ears back into trying to catch what they were saying as well.

"And what did that even mean, that he was _better_ than some of them?" Rogers was hissing, his face caught between anger and disappointment.

"It means I've got more scars than you'd remember," Barnes snapped. "And not all of them from action." There was a moment of silence.

"Buck..."

"I'm not asking you to be buddies with him, Steve," Barnes said, dropping his voice, so I had to strain my ears even more to hear him, "but could you at least be on the same side? For now? We need him."

"Fine, but just... I hate it, Buck, I hate being around him. I hate _you_ being around him."

Barnes snorted lightly. "Everyone makes mistakes, Steve."

"Yeah, well. There are mistakes and mistakes."

"Steve..."

"Fine. Fine. You're right, we need him."

"And afterwards?"

"C'mon, seriously?"

"Yeah."

"Fine. If you're really sure."

"Yeah, I am," Barnes said, nodding seriously, and Rogers sighed, sticking his hands in his pockets and nodded back, his eyes on the floor. "We're okay?"

Rogers looked up with half a smile. "Yeah, I'm not losing you again, Buck. Certainly not over him."

"Never," Barnes said, and I could hear the smile in his voice, even with his back turned.

"Do you think they need a separate room?" I whispered in Brock's ear, and he grinned, his eyes glittering, quickly wiping the expression off his face as Barnes turned around, their eyes locking together. Barnes raised both his eyebrows, then gave a small smile, and Brock's whole body relaxed.

"You know what this means," I said, and he turned back to look at me, his eyes burning. "I'm going to make you listen to romance songs again."

"I don't care," he said, and kissed me with all the force of freedom.

"Now who needs a separate room?" Barnes snorted, and I flipped him the bird behind Brock's back.

* * *

 **A/N: Just a quick shout-out to say thanks to everyone who's left a review over the course of this work, it means a lot!**


	20. Chapter 20

For all the hardships, annoyance and effort we put in over the next few weeks, it still all felt worth it. All the headaches I got from long hours scrolling through the internet, reporting back anything noteworthy I found to Brock or Natasha so they could best judge and counter the public mood; all the long evenings when I lay awake alone, Brock still discussing strategies with Rogers and Natasha and Bucky, who'd insisted I call him that from the first time we'd exchanged nods; it all felt worth it, like we could win the fight, and that fighting had been the right choice.

When we all had to stand and watch Bucky being lead away in restraints to be flown back to the US, guarded by ten men, Rogers shaking with suppressed emotion, that was when I wondered why he hadn't just run again. There was nothing any of us could do to stop it, not without messing up everything else. Nothing we could have done to prevent it either; it wasn't the result of anything we had done. The responsibility lay squarely on the shoulders of a man I quickly came to hate in the saddest way possible

For the words he threw around so carelessly, for the blame he placed on Bucky, and Brock by association, for the way he'd shut Rogers out and refused to see him when he'd attempted to talk, I hated Tony Stark. He wasn't perfect, any more than the rest of the world. His name had been emblazoned proudly on the side of missiles and bombs and guns for years. It was his meddling that had brought Ultron into this world, and sent half a city exploding out of it.

But for the undeniable truth in his accusations, for the passion in his speeches, showing just how firmly he believed in what he was doing, for that I pitied him. He had stopped making weapons, even destroyed stockpiles of them around the world so they couldn't be used to hurt anyone else. He had been part of the team that had averted so many catastrophes. He'd sacrificed himself to stop a nuclear missile blowing up a city of thousands.

Pity and hate. Hated pity. Pitying hatred. The two emotions warred within me, to the extent that I couldn't sleep at night, not helped by the memory of so many encouraging or toxic comments, for both sides, that I sifted through on the internet every day. In the end though, there was one incident that summed up every feeling and consequence of what Tony Stark had decided to do.

.

.

Bucky was being held in an ex-shield facility. That in itself had taken a lot of talking, and compromise, to bring about. It had taken Rogers a solid hour to convince Bucky to talk to the psychologist, and many assurances that he'd been fully checked out, and was genuine. It had then taken said doctor nearly a week to convince a judge that prison was not a good place for Bucky to be held in the run-up to the trial. Rogers had tried to 'help' in that persuasion, but after ten minutes when there had apparently been the sounds of multiple breakages inside the room, he'd stormed out, and the lawyer had told him firmly not to come back. But eventually, they won out, and Bucky was transferred to a cold building, full of grey walls and flickering lights. Bucky wasn't allowed to be left alone, or to leave the facility, which now had a full team of twenty guards around the clock. Every room had a camera, which was recording the whole time he was in there, the footage instantly uploaded to a server accessible by everyone involved in the case, and he had an ankle monitor on. Brock had laughed when he'd heard about the last one, and when I first saw the rather insubstantial piece of plastic on the same body as the metal arm, I knew why. If he wanted it off, it would come off. Rogers objected more to the cameras, though Bucky just shrugged off his objections, not meeting his eyes.

Most of the time, I would stay in the apartment while Brock went off to meet with Bucky and the lawyer, partly because I could do my part from wherever there was internet, and partly because it had taken almost as much talking for me to be allowed onto the facility as it had taken to get Bucky there in the first place, so I tried not to push my luck by using it too much. But I didn't like Brock driving so much, and I needed a break from the apartment, so on that day, I drove us out to the middle of nowhere, which wasn't as far as I'd first expected. Predictably, the security on the gate spent a long time checking the car, and eying my drivers licence, desperate to find that my name didn't match their very short list, and get me kicked off the site, or worse. It was with many scowls that they finally let us in, and I scowled back at them in my mirror as I pulled off and parked. Brock and I walked in together, fingers linked as we stepped inside and made our way past the many more security guards. He knew the way far better than I did, so took the lead round the many corners to the small group of rooms with more signs of life than the rest of the three floors put together.

Wilson was sitting at one of the large circular tables, and glanced up as we came in. His jaw tightened, shoulders flexing as he dropping his gaze again immediately back to one of a huge stack of books piled around him. Brock rolled his eyes as we went over to one of the other tables. I slid my laptop onto the table, and disentangled my hand from Brock's as I pulled an internet cable over, flashing him a smile as he moved over to another door.

"I wouldn't," Wilson said, without looking up. "They're discussing Bucky's testimony." Brock hesitated, then turned and returned to my table, snagging a stack of files on the way. We all sat in silence for several minutes. The sound of my mouse clicking, Wilson's pen scribbling endless notes, and the slick rip of sticky notes from Brock as he marked things in the files were the only noises between us. And of course, the raised voices, muffled by the wall but still loud enough to be audible. When the door opened, we all looked up without moving our heads, just the little flickers of eyes.

Stella Hanson, who I was sure was the second-best lawyer in the entire country, shot out so fast that the door closed and then bounced open again behind her.

"Coffee," she said determinately, though no-one asked, and sped off down the hall, moving at an impressive speed for someone so large, short black hair bobbing as she disappeared. With the door open, we could now hear the exact words being thrown around in the room beyond.

"C'mon, Buck, I know you don't want to, but it's for the best—"

"Don't want to? Steve, I've lived through it once, isn't that enough. I don't _want_ to have to remember it all over again, let alone spill it to a whole room full of people!"

"No-one's going to judge you, Bucky."

Bucky's laugh was hollow, echoing through the open door. "Everyone will be judging me. That's kinda the point of this, isn't it?" There was a shattering, followed by a dull thud and fluttering noise that I couldn't place, but the sigh afterwards was loud enough for all of us to hear it clearly. "Why? Why's he doing this, Steve? Why couldn't he just..."

"I know, Buck, I know. I'm sorry." There was a pause, in which I glanced at Brock, but his gaze was also fixed upon the open door and after a moment Rogers spoke again. "But you've got to show your side of it—"

"My side?!" Bucky was instantly angry again, the words erupting in a hiss. "You don't want to hear my side, Steve. And I don't want to tell it." There was heavy footsteps, and Bucky stomped out, eyes flicking over the three of us, all staring at him. His gaze fixed on Brock just as Rogers appeared in the doorway behind him. "Walk with me?"

Brock kept his face blank as he nodded and stood up.

"Seriously?" Rogers asked. "You'll talk to him but not to me?" Bucky ignored him, turning away and walking off down the corridor, but Rogers lunged forwards and grabbed his arm. Bucky twisted, throwing off the grip instantly, rounding on the taller man.

"He understands!" he bellowed, and the silence afterwards made my ears ring. "He knows what it's like to have done so much shit you wish you hadn't." Breathing hard, Bucky backed off half a step. "You shouldn't have to listen to everything I'd done Steve. You're too good for that." Bucky turned away. "Don't clean that stuff up," he threw over his shoulder as he rounded a corner. Brock only glanced at Rogers once before following him in silence.

.

.

It was that incident, listening to Bucky's angry, desperate words, and seeing the hopelessness in Rogers eyes afterwards that decided my emotions for me. No matter what Tony Stark believed, or how much he thought he was doing the right thing... No matter how much I could pity him, he was wrong. They didn't deserve to have to go through this.


	21. Chapter 21

I stayed out of the courtroom as much as I could. After sitting through the opening statements, I didn't want to hear about all the things the Winter Soldier had done, knowing there was no rebuttal to those sins. I kept up my online surveillance, monitoring reactions with increasing speed as the trial progressed and I fed as much information as possible back through Brock and Natasha, so that they could give the best arguments to the press. Brock was there every day, coming home to me with a grim expression that only grew darker as the days wore on, towards the time for his testimony. His nightmares returned in full force, until I was waking him twice a night from dreams that left him shaking, with sweat on his face and his jaw clenched tightly. He was one of the first witnesses for Bucky's defence, with Steve and Natasha afterwards, and Bucky himself later still, and as the trial progressed he withdrew further and further away from me, retreating to a dark space that I struggled to snap him out of.

I woke early on the day of his testimony, and reached out in the dark to nothing but a cold space. Sitting up at once, I listened to the silence that was broken by familiar coughs. Slipping out of bed, I padded through to the kitchen, then returned to the bathroom, opening the door just enough to let a chink of light from the bedroom spill across the floor to where Brock was hunched over the toilet. I placed the glass of water carefully beside him, then sat down with my back to the bathtub. He took his time, leaning his forehead against the cool ceramic whilst I watched the scars on his back glistened in the light until eventually he turned over, sitting with his bad leg out in front of him and sipping the water with his eyes closed. Even when he opened them, he looked at the floor rather than at me.

"If I asked you not to come today, what would you do?" he asked. I let my own gaze wander as I considered my answer.

"I took you," I said, watching the side of his face in the semi-darkness, "as my lawful wedded husband, for better... or for worse. All you have been, and all you will be. All of you. If you ask me to, I'll climb back into bed and not leave it until you get back. If that's what you need from me."

"But?"

"But I hope you'll let me be there for you," I finished simply. His eyes closed.

"I love you," he whispered, and I shuffled forwards, putting my hand under his chin and pulling his face around until he was finally looking at me.

"As I love you," I said firmly, and he smiled ever so slightly.

"Promise?"

"Always," I vowed, and we held each other on the cold floor.

Brock's testimony lasted for a day and a half. The cross examination was the worst, but I sat with my lips firmly sealed as Brock was insulted fairly thoroughly on all fronts. He kept his cool very well, the mask only slipping when he had to avoid Bucky's eyes as he recounted their five missions together as part of Hydra in excruciating detail, and then every interaction with him since, including an excruciating description of the evening he had stood by and listened to Bucky scream as his brain had been electrocuted because he'd recognised Steve. The front broke completely when we got home, Brock's face becoming dark and brooding as he hunched over on the couch, retreating into himself. I didn't say a word, but just sat, hoping that my presence might help at all. His hand did eventually come out to curl around mine, but the silence prevailed throughout the evening.

I didn't go back in to watch Steve or Natasha testify, but Brock gave me the run down when he came back each night. His part out of the way, he seemed both more relaxed, and tenser, but was happy enough to bicker about Steve, who apparently refused to take his eyes off Bucky, whether on the stand or off of it.

"I mean," Brock griped through a mouthful of curry, "could he _be_ anymore love-struck? It's vaguely sickening."

I grinned. "Well they did take however-many-years to find each other again. Lots of time to make up for."

"Yeah, but they won't just come out and admit it. It's so obvious, but noooo, have to keep up appearances, not that anyone is believing it anymore. I bet Barnes will out him though, it's gotta be pissing him off by now."

"I'm sure he'd like to," I chuckled, "but he probably has enough restraint to hold it in until this is over."

"Probably," Brock agreed. "Still think it's pointless though. No point pretending to hide in the closet when the door are already open."

"Still their choice," I reminded him gently.

"Right. Cos their choices have been stellar so far," he grumbled, and I raised an eyebrow. "Fine," he huffed. "It's just... getting to me."

I smiled at him. "I know. And that's okay."

Bucky's own turn on the stand was the only other one I went in to watch, and it was easily the hardest part of the whole process, beside watching my husband, simply because of his refusal to protest to his own innocence. Even after the gut-wrenching stories of everything he could remember happening to him, which I was sure he cut down, but still left tears on my cheeks, he admitted to almost every crime placed put upon his shoulder. There were a couple he denied, and vehemently, but the trouble was that he told the truth, completely, and that meant it had been his finger on the trigger that had caused a whole lot of deaths. I just prayed that the jury had been listening to the parts where Brock had described the mindless tool he'd been, so different to the man in front of us now, and Steve's apparently rousing descriptions of his character before the war, and the medical professionals who'd testified that what had been done to him had caused serious damage, both mentally and physically.

I was sitting between Brock and Natasha when it all came to an end, and I was surprised to find I was shaking as the judge asked, for the third day, if the jury had come to a decision, and they finally replied with an affirmative. Brock's hand returned the pressure I was exerting, but I was sure it was to a lesser intensity, because it felt like I was about to break his fingers. I took a breath and tried to loosen my grip.

And just like that, it was over. Or maybe it was just beginning.

There were tears in my eyes as I watched Steve practically vault over the barrier to get to Bucky, who looked up at him with numb shock for a second before returning his hug. Everyone around us was on their feet, there were cheers and applause, and the whole of the front row was crowded around to offer their own congratulations. Bucky received them all in a shell-shocked manner, blinking and trying to smile but failing. I smiled twice as much to make up for it as I looked at my husband, nudging him gently with my elbow.

"Hey," I muttered, and he looked round at me, with a satisfied expression. "It's over." He blinked, stared past my head for a second, blinked again, then grinned.

"Yeah, I guess it is," he said, before a disturbance to my right pulled our attention round. Bucky had moved through the crowd, and was standing, staring at Brock, who pulled away from me to stand square on to him, watching warily. For a second, the two stared at each other. Bucky broke the silence first, letting out a quick string of words that I guessed to be Russian. Brock drew in a breath as he stood up a little taller, half-glancing back towards me, considering Bucky from a distance before shrugging slightly and shaking his head. His reply was short and just as intelligible as the question had been to me. There was another moment of silence, then Bucky smiled slightly, and held out a hand. Brock grinned back and clasped it tightly, and my smile grew fonder as I looked at the pair of them. They broke apart as Steve came up and squeezed Bucky's shoulder, glancing an Brock with an expression that was, if not fond, tolerant. Bucky turned to face him, but paused before he could, looking off to the side. I turned to follow his gaze, and my heart sank. Tony was watching us all, his face too tight to be blank. None of us moved, as he got to his feet, holding Bucky's gaze before turning and walking out without looking back. There was a moment of silence, Bucky and Steve sharing a glance filled with sad determination as the rest of Tony's supporters filed out, some with heads bowed, but others shooting angry looks at the two men. Steve barely seems to notice, ushering Bucky back into his crowd of well-wishers without a single glance back as Brock turned to me, and I brought my smile back to my face with only a little effort.

By mutual unspoken agreement, we both turned and headed towards the doors, ready to leave this chapter far behind.

"What did he say to you?" I asked, as we found a place in the crowd and slipped out of the doors.

"He said 'I guess this is goodbye then'," Brock translated, with half a grin.

"And you?" I asked, with raised eyebrows.

"I said 'not unless you want it to be'," Brock said, then hesitated, glancing across at me as we emerged into the sunlight. "Is that okay?"

I smiled. "Yeah, that's okay."

"Rumlow!"

We both turned, Brock tensing beside me, before spotting Steve's head above the crowd, which parted only reluctantly around us as we halted to watch him approach.

"What do you reckon he'd do if we make a break for it?" I muttered in Brock's ear.

"Catch us?" he suggested, and I chuckled, only breaking off when Steve came to a halt a few feet away.

"I... ah... I..." he hesitated, and Brock raised an amused eyebrow. "Umm, I wanted to say that..." He cleared his throat.

"Jeez, Rogers, don't choke on it," Brock said. "Both ends of the deal fulfilled now?"

Rogers sighed, then nodded, and Brock turned away. "And if something does come up?"

Brock shrugged, glancing back over his shoulder. "Then get Romanoff to call me." We made it three steps before Rogers spoke again.

"Rumlow!" he hesitated as we looked back. "Thank you. For... yeah. Thanks."

Brock looked at him for a moment, then gave a wry smile. "Go back to your boyfriend Rogers." They stared at each other until Brock raised an eyebrow, when Steve shook himself, nodded dazedly, and turned, walking quickly away. Brock turned back to me.

"Was that okay?"

I laughed. "More than," I said. "Come on, let's get out of here." So we did.

* * *

A/N: Apologies for the hideously long delay, full excuses (NaNo, to exams, to death in family, etc) on AO3 if you're so inclined to go and read them...  
Otherwise, this is the end of the main arc, so I can let it have a guilt-free break from this. There are two more little arcs I want to cover, but can wait a little while, since there's a break in the timeline anyway. But enough teasing, basically stay tuned, but this is a nice break-point.


	22. Chapter 22

Unlocking the door with my hands full, I shoved it open with my hip and staggered inside, dropping the bags unceremoniously and kicking the door shut behind me. With a relieved sigh, I dumped my keys and rubbed my sore fingers before beginning to shift the bags through to the kitchen, only taking two at a time now. I could have made more than one trip from the car. Could have chosen a house without a slope up to the door too. I'd given Brock a sideways look about it, but he'd just shrugged, and I'd let it go. The rest of the house made up for it though, a small two-bed ranch, far enough outside the city that we both felt disconnected from it at last. With some distance, the events of the past seemed, finally, to be willing to settle there, where they belonged.

It hadn't just been that easy though. After everything, perhaps I shouldn't have expected it to be. We'd already been thinking of moving again when the attack had happened. Four masked figures, in the middle of the night. A broken window, too many gunshots, and a lot of blood. That incident had sealed the decision for both of us, so we'd come here. I hadn't seen any of our one-time enemies and allies since the trial, though Natasha had called after the incident, and I sometimes heard one side of Brock's conversations and guessed he was talking to Bucky on the other end. Steve had remained blessedly silent, and Stark... well, no-one had seen Stark at all. Iron Man was still swooping around, but his faceplate remained firmly down, and no one had seen the man in months. I told myself that it wasn't my problem, and didn't lose much sleep over it.

Shoving a pot of ice cream in the freezer, I straightened up, shaking the chill from my hand, and looked round as the door opened. Smiling, I walked over to the hallway, leaning on the door and watching as Brock waved a hand of thanks out towards the road before shutting the door.

"Hey," I said, and he looked round with a light frown.

"Huh?"

"Hey," I repeated, with a grin.

"Oh," he grinned back. "Hey back." After the incident, when a gun he'd knocked aside had gone off right next to his ear, Brock's hearing had gone from patchy to unreliable. For the most part, he managed, and if there was a loud noise, or he knew someone was talking to him, there was no problem. It was just if someone behind him was talking that things could get lost.

"Do we need to go shopping?" he asked, pausing with his shoes half-off.

I shook my head. "I went on the way home," I said, and he groaned in relief.

"Life saver."

I laughed. "Knew there was some reason we're still together."

"Yeah, I couldn't quite remember what it was," he mused as he came towards me. "Now I realise... you go shopping." I snorted. "Among other things," he hedged, kissing me as he went passed. Shaking my head, but grinning too, I rolled around and followed him.

"How was work?"

"Eh," he shrugged. "Same old. Lots of people hitting things, some better at it than others." I chuckled.

"No injuries? And what d'ya fancy for dinner?"

"No, nice and clean. And whatever's going to take minimal effort," he groaned.

"Still got half a lasagne," I suggested.

"Sold," he replied instantly, rolling his right shoulder as he dropped down in front of the freezer, pulling out a garlic baguette and tossing it back to me, catching my look. "It's fine," he said, stilling the movement of his shoulder. "Just jarred it a little holding a bag for Dominic."

I made a face, but carried on, saying nothing. Brock's job at the gym was a perfect fit in all other respects, and his colleague, John, lived a few streets over, and they caught lifts together. That didn't mean I didn't know it was still hard on his leg every day, let alone the other injuries, though I couldn't deny that it was better than him being shot at.

Staring across the kitchen at my husband, I knew everything was coming together. Things were finally on the right track.

What a stupid thought.

The yellow glow of the night-light was only mildly comforting as my eyes snapped open. It took a few terrifying seconds before I could breathe again, my heart thumping hard as I heard gun shots resonating once more in my mind. Just a dream. Just the same dream. Rolling sideways, I looked at Brock, watching his face twitch, full of life. No blood pooling around him. Alive, unhurt, beside me.

A quick glance around the room showed me that there were no masked figure climbing in through the window, no one pushing open the door. Just one shadow, standing between the window and the wardrobe.

I blinked, and blinked again, my still-unsteady breaths halting once more. Truth, or dream-induced paranoia? He didn't even blink, but his eyes were there, staring, hard, real, familiar. His face was next to fall into place, the stubble on his cheeks changing the lines, the dark hair framing it throwing deeper shadows around him.

Moving very slowly, I sat up onto my elbows. He didn't react at all, still staring at Brock, who slept on. With a swallow that seemed to do anything but clear my throat, I reached out, carefully, so carefully.

Brock came awake at my touch, jerking a little, but I clenched my hand around his arm, holding him down. He looked across at me, but I wasn't sure I could make a single sound, just nodding infinitesimally across the room.

Brock saw him faster than I had, watching silently for a second then sitting up slowly, blocking my view.

"Grace," he said, his voice very low, "take your phone and go in the bathroom."

I didn't move."

"Now, Gracie."

Shaking, I slid out of bed, the sound of my bare feet on the floor almost painfully loud. Bucky, who was very definitely not Bucky, still made no reaction, continuing to stare at Brock with that unreadable expression. My fingers found my phone behind me, and I backed away, through the doorway and closing the pitiful piece of wood with shaking hands.

In an instant, I was on the other side of the room, huddled behind the toilet cistern, curled into a shaking ball, hands pressed up against my mouth. Why had I left? Oh god, I'd left them. I'd left him. What had I done? Just walking away? What was I thinking? The sound of Brock's voice steadied me, and my head came up as I listened to his muffled tone. I might not be in the room, but that didn't mean I couldn't help.

It took me two attempts to unlock my phone, my hands shaking too much to enter the code, but when the screen came up I went to my contacts instantly, scrolling quickly down the list to a number I'd never used before, and holding it close to my ear.

"Who is this?" The voice was brusque, harsh, but also worried too.

"Romanoff?" I whispered. "Natasha?"

"Grace?"

I nodded. "What's going on?" I said, trying to keep it from becoming a whimper.

"Is he with you? At your house?" Natasha asked, her voice suddenly sharp.

"Yes," I breathed, then jumped, flinching away from the phone as there was a sudden onslaught of shouting.

"Don't move, we're on our way," Natasha barked at me.

"What happened?" I asked, more urgently.

"Not a fucking clue," she said, and hung up.

More rattled than ever, and yet somehow calmer at the same time, I raised my gaze back to the bathroom door. There was nothing but silence.

Breathing through my nose, doing all I could not to think about the different reasons why it might be quiet, I stood up, tiptoeing sideways towards the door. With closed eyes and a clenched jaw, I cracked the door open. Nothing happened. No movement, no sound, no nothing. Back against the wall, I pushed it open further with my toes, then ducked my head quickly out. The room was empty. I risked a second glance, but still nothing. Heart now beating hard for a new reason, I slipped out of the bathroom, looking both ways, and up at the ceiling before every step. The floor on the other side of the bed was clear and I turned my gaze to the other door, the one out to the rest of the ranch. Shoving my phone into the pocket of my pjs, I flicked it open, hands clenched into fists. The hallway was empty, but there was light coming from the kitchen and living room. Very slowly, I moved forwards, and then I finally heard the sound I'd been waiting for, and my knees shook.

"... don't worry about that. Just tell me what happened." It was Brock. Alive, and talking. My Brock. I moved up to the doorway, and stood for a moment, looking through. Brock and Bucky were sitting side by side on the couch, Brock's bad leg stretched out past the coffee table, his scars standing out in the glow from the side lamp. They both looked up as I came round the corner, looking rather mismatched, Bucky in thick jumper and boots, Brock with nothing but his sleep shorts on. Bucky dropped his gaze to my feet immediately, shoulder hunching.

"Sorry," he mumbled, glancing back up at me, then away again. Despite his many layers, he looked the colder of the pair of them, arms crossed, hands clenched, shoulders pulled in.

I looked at him. "Do you want a hot drink?"

Again, he glanced up, then away again. He shook his head.

"I'm having one," I said.

He hesitated, then nodded. I raised an eyebrow at Brock, who also nodded, his mouth half-lifting as he did so. I moved away, along into the kitchen, and flicked the kettle on, pulling out my phone to send text one-handed.

"What happened, man?" Brock asked, as I carried over two mugs, and placed them on the table before the men. "Was it another operative?"

Bucky shook his head as I moved around and sat up on one of the breakfast stools, spinning slowly. "No," he said, staring at the purple mug I'd left in front of him. "That's the worst bit. I don't know what set him off." He turned hopeless eyes onto my husband. "It could have been anything. And it could happen again just as easily. Maybe..." he broke off, looking away.

"Maybe what?" Brock pushed.

"Maybe I shouldn't... What if I..." he swallowed, and we both waited. "Maybe I should go back under." His eyes closed, but he couldn't hide the shiver that went through him.

I watched Brock stare at him. "Cryo?"

Bucky nodded.

"What the hell would that solve?"

I stared at him, but Bucky didn't even move, his head still hanging down.

"C'mon, man. I'm serious," Brock said, sitting forwards. "That's not going to get you anything."

"It would mean more time, for someone to work out how to get this stuff out of my head," Bucky said stoutly. "It would mean I don't have to worry about what might happen, about where I'll end up next, or who I might hurt on the way!"

"This isn't something someone else will solve for you," Brock said bluntly. "You won't wake up one day and find some magical cure to dig the past out of your head. It has to come from you. Or the people around you."

I hid my smile behind my mug, but it was Bucky who looked up at me, not Brock. It was only for a second, a quick glance before turning his gaze downwards again.

"How?" he asked quietly.

"Let it go. Forgive yourself, live every day, look forwards," Brock rattled off, the words coming too easily to be improvised. "Don't shut yourself off from people. Don't be afraid to talk."

Bucky snorted.

"I'm serious. You don't want to talk to them," Brock jerked his head vaguely, "come talk to me. Since apparently you know where we are."

Bucky's mouth quirked ever so slightly, flicking his eyes up at Brock, then back round to me again.

I nodded. "Door's always open. Figuratively. Unless you're going to keep sneaking in to watch us sleep. That was creepy."

"Sorry," he said again, but with more of a grin now.

"Forgiven, forgotten," I waved it away, pleased when he reached out and picked up the hot cocoa, taking a sip. Brock looked up at me, and we shared a tired smile.

I'd closed my eyes, leaning my elbow on the counter and jumping every time one of the men spoke, which was intermittently, before the sound of many car wheels screeching made me sit upright. The men, who'd been silent anyway, went on alert, ears pricking almost visibly as they focused on the door. Bucky's jaw was tense, and he looked away first as I stood up and tried to remember how to walk in a straight line, making my way to the door and opening it to find the front yard swarming.

My eyes found Natasha without difficulty. "Didn't you get my text?" I asked. She had the grace to look mildly guilty at least. Shaking my head, I turned away, letting the door swing shut as I walked away. It opened behind me before I'd reached the end of the hall.

Brock came to his feet as I came round the corner, my arms crossed. Bucky looked up too, half rising to his feet until the footsteps following me came into the room. He sat back down at once, eyes turning away as Steve rushed past me.

"Are you okay?" he demanded, crouching in front of Bucky and looking him over, eyes wide. "Are you hurt?"

"'M fine," Bucky muttered, shoulders hunching in. He was still holding his mug, and his whole body seemed to curl in around it. "Sorry."

"No, Buck, no. I'm sorry. We shouldn't have..." Steve took a breath. "It won't happen again, okay. I won't let it, I promise."

"And if it does, you know where to come," Brock said.

Steve rounded on him at once and Brock was ready to meet him, shoulders tensing, pulling on the scars over his arms and back. "As if you—" Steve snarled as he stood up. Natasha and I both moved between them.

"Don't," I said to my husband, my hand on his chest. "He's stressed, and you're tired."

Brock turned away, though reluctantly, and I looked back at Steve. Instead, my gaze found Bucky. His eyes were closed.

"Come on, Buck," Steve said, more harshly than I thought was necessary, "let's get back."

Bucky hesitated, then stood, turning not towards the door, but to me. He held out the empty mug. "Thank you," he said, very quietly.

"Any time," I said, trying to put as much emphasis into the words as possible. He flicked one final glance at me through his messy hair, then he turned away and was gone. The ranch was empty in a remarkable short space of time, the mass of dark cars gone from the front, and quiet restored.

"Well," I said, coming back into the kitchen from restoring the locks on the front door, finding that Brock had already rinsed out the mugs and stacked them into the dishwasher. "That was fun."

He gave a snort as I wrapped my arms around him, leaning my head lightly on his shoulder next to his good ear.

"D'you think he'll come back?" I asked, raising my head to watch his reflection in the window as he stared at something only he could see.

"Yeah," he said heavily. "I think he will."


	23. Chapter 23

Brock was right; Bucky did come back. Though, thankfully, he didn't sneak into our room in the middle of the night again. The first time, Brock's phone rang, and he was halfway through telling Romanoff that he hadn't seen Bucky when he looked out the window and had paused, then taken the words back. I'd looked out the back, and sure enough, there was a dark figure out there, sitting on the paving with his back to the house. Brock had assured Natasha that he was okay, then hung up, exchanged a glance with me, and gone out to join him.

The second time, he had got to us before the phone call came. Steve's voice had been frantic, but I'd assured him that Bucky was safe, and with us. He'd started lots of sentences he couldn't finish, then hung up. I'd shaken my head and turned my attention back to the TV, where we were just on to Episode 3 of Prison Break

The third time, there was no phone call. It made me nervous. I squirmed and wriggled, checking both my phone and Brock's, making sure they both had signal, then tried to convince myself that Bucky had told Steve where he was going this time.

"Another one?" Brock asked amicably, looking past me at Bucky, who was quiet, not that it was unusual. But he shook his head, sending his hair, which was growing longer every time I saw him, swinging in front of his eyes. With a shrug, Brock pulled himself up slowly, but I grabbed the remote before he could stretch too far. He gave my hand a grateful squeeze before Bucky spoke.

"I need to talk to you." His voice was quiet.

I leaned forwards, unobtrusively gathering glasses, thinking to take them out into the kitchen and leave them to their privacy.

"Stay. Please."

I looked up, surprised, but nodded slowly at the seriousness in Bucky's eyes, sitting back on the couch and waiting. He hesitated, then pulled something out of his pocket, leaning forwards to put it on a coaster in the middle of the table.

We all stared down at the little object, about the size of a tic-tac, shining up at us. I blinked, then had a horrible thought. Upturning an empty glass, I brought it down over the little piece of metal.

Bucky actually smiled, looking aside. "It's not a bug," he reassured me.

"Then what is it?" I asked suspiciously, eyeing the object as Brock sat forwards, removing the glass and picking it up. Bucky was silent as he examined it.

"It's a tracker," Brock said heavily. There was a moment of silence.

"That's why they didn't call. They know where you are. Steve knows about this?" I demanded angrily.

Bucky nodded. "He's the one who planted it."

"How did you know?"

He gave a pained smile. "He can't lie to me."

"This is a sub-dermal design," Brock cut across us. Bucky didn't respond, the false levity falling from his face. Brock looked at him, then set the tracker back on the table. "Why did you tell us this?"

Bucky hesitated, taking a breath. "Because I want to use it."

Brock frowned. "You want to reprogram it?"

"No," Bucky shook his head, finally looking up at us both. "They think they know where I am with this." He took another breath. The sound was loud between us. "I want to use that to... take care of some things."

Brock sat forwards. "What's going on?"

Their eyes met. "Siberia."

Brock looked away, running a hand over his face, then fitting it over his chin, looking up at Bucky balefully.

"I can't just leave that hanging over us," Bucky said seriously, his voice dropping. "They're too dangerous."

"So why not take Steve with you? You could use the back-up, from what you've told me."

Bucky shook his head. "I don't want more people in on this. If anyone knew it was done, they'd know it could be done again." He and Brock shared another glance. "Besides, I only get once chance to use this. Might as well be for something important."

My husband sighed, then dropped his hand from his face, sitting up. "What do you need from us?"

Bucky's eyes closed briefly, his mouth twitching up. "I've been listening out as much as I can, but I need to get more involved, keep an ear closer to the ground. I come here, leave the tracker with you, do what needs to be done."

"That might buy you a few hours, but not enough time for you to get to Siberia and back without Steve getting suspicious," I pointed out.

"I'll deal with that," Bucky assured me, grimacing distastefully. "Just, if they call when I'm not here, tell them that I am."

Brock nodded. "Alright. I can do that."

Bucky turned his eyes to me. I sighed, but nodded. "Okay." I wanted to tell him to be careful, but held the words back. Just because he was sitting and watching TV with us wasn't enough to make me forget that he had another side. I gathered up the glasses, and took them out into the kitchen.

As I rinsed them out, Brock spoke again, his voice low, but not low enough to keep the words from my ears.

"This is a sub-dermal design."

Bucky made a non-committal noise. They were silent again.

.

.

.

True to his word, Bucky set to work. He would still come and sit with us, but often enough, he would just leave the tracker in our custody, and disappear. At first, he kept it short, gone for a couple of hours on a weekend afternoon, but he gradually began to change the hours, stretching the visits. Sometimes the tracker would be waiting on the kitchen counter when we got up in the morning, and we would stand looking down at it while we had our coffee.

We kept up our part, though we only had to field two phone calls, once when Bucky stayed over for the first night, and he actually was in the ranch, the second in the middle of an afternoon, Natasha sounding stressed as I picked up Brock's phone. I'd frozen, then told her Bucky was in the bathroom, asking what was wrong with un-faked concern. She'd just sighed, thanked me, and hung up.

.

.

It was only a week and a half later that it actually happened. I woke in the middle of the night to a room that was far too bright. Groggily, I sat up, rolling over into the empty space where my husband should have been. Brock was standing in the doorway, outlined by the light in the hall, talking to someone I could see.

"—you're sure you don't want me to come with you?" he was saying.

I rolled off the bed and padded over in time to see Bucky shake his head. He was fully kitted out—his black jacket that left his gleaming left arm bare, the butt of a gun visible in a thigh holster, boots I was sure he could put through a wall.

"No. Need you here." He held out a hand, and Brock took the tracker from him, hiding it in the palm of his hand.

"And Steve?"

Bucky looked aside. "We had a fight. Should buy me enough time. Here." He held out a piece of paper. "Burner, if you really need it. I switched my regular one off, it's in the living room, in case he's fiddled with it."

Brock took the phone number without looking at it. "Are you sure about this?"

"Yes. Too much at stake," Bucky said shortly, taking a step back.

Brock's shoulders dropped, and he spoke a few short words in Russian. Bucky's chin came up and his eyes closed briefly, then they opened again, and all expression dropped off his face. He gave a curt reply, then turned and strode away.

We waited, staring after him until we heard the sound of the door closing before Brock let his head thud back against the door frame.

"I should have gone with him," he said dully.

"He'll be okay," I said, pretending I could convince myself. We held our places in the tableau for a moment longer, then I tugged gently on his arm. "Come back to bed," I suggested. He sighed, but did so, flicking off the light before closing the door.

We lay back down and went back to sleep with our fingers intertwined between us, Bucky's tracker held against both our palms.


	24. Chapter 24

It was mid-morning when we got the first phone call, Natasha's ID flashing up accusingly from Brock's phone. We exchanged a glance, then I picked up.

"Hello?"

"Grace, it's—"

"Hang on," I cut her off, walking across the room, and holding the phone away from my ear, so she could hear me close the door.

"So, you wanna tell me what's going on?" I asked, putting it on speaker so Brock could listen in.

"I..." she hesitated.

"I'll rephrase. What the hell happened?"

"Is he okay?"

"Define okay," I said. Brock was grinning. I had to turn away to stop it ruining my angry tone. "He's... I think he'll be okay. He just needs some space for a while."

Natasha paused. "Okay. Okay, as long as he's alright."

I closed my eyes. I couldn't tell her he was safe. That lie would be too personal. So I didn't. "Pass it on to..." I bit off the sentence, as if unable to say the name. "Pass it on. Give him some space. I'm sure he'll come back when he's ready."

"I will," she said quietly. "Just... please tell him I'm sorry."

"I will," I said, before ending the call and looking up at Brock.

"What the hell sort of fight did he pick?" Brock asked, staring apprehensively at the phone in my hand.

"Not sure I want to know," I muttered.

.

.

It was another day and a half before they called again, in the evening. Brock wasn't sure how accurate the tracker was, so we'd been carrying it around in our pockets to keep it moving. I tried not to think about it, or the one it was meant to be monitoring. Whether they could see the movement within the house or not, Steve broke and Brock's phone rang. I'd only been in for a couple of minutes, but Brock had had the day off, sorting out some paperwork. I looked up from taking off my shoes as the phone rang beside him.

He glanced down and grimaced, "oh joy. Here we go." With a sigh, he picked it up and took the call. He'd barely put it to his ear when he made a face and pulled it away, putting it on speaker. The sound of something shattering came through clearly.

"Stop it!" Natasha cried faintly. "He doesn't want to talk to us!"

"I don't care!" Steve roared back, much louder.

"This isn't the best way..." Another voice hedged. Sam Wilson. There was the sound of a door slamming.

"BUCKY!"

We both flinched, Brock holding his phone at arm's length.

"Jeez, Rogers, you trying to blow out my one good ear?"

"Put him on the phone," Steve growled. "Right now."

"He's unavailable."

"Don't give me that, Rumlow! I know he's with you, let me talk to him."

"Hah. I'll try that another way. He doesn't want to talk to you. Or was him ignoring your calls too subtle?"

"He turned off his phone." The change in his tone was enough to make Brock and I exchange a glance. "Please," Steve said, and he sounded utterly miserable. "Please, just... I have to talk to him."

"That's not my call," Brock said, his voice lowered to match Steve's. "He'll come around."

"Will he?" The words were barely more than a whisper, followed immediately by the incessant beeping that told us he'd hung up.

Brock dropped the phone as if it had burned his already scarred hands, dropping his face into them instead. Kicking my shoes away, I went over, straddling one of his legs to pull him close, his arms winding around my waist at once.

"Never thought I'd pity _him_ ," he said, his voice muffled in my stomach.

I held him for a minute, then tugged him upright. "Let's bake," I suggested. "With Disney songs."

He smiled. "I love you."

I smiled back, kissing him gently, then heading off to the kitchen. He followed, but hesitated at the door. I looked back and found him texting slowly with one hand, a scrap of paper I recognised in the other. The number Bucky had left. Brock looked up and met my gaze, a twist to his mouth.

"They're not going to be held off for much longer," he said. I nodded, knowing he was right. The sooner Bucky got back, the better.

We were both tense, though trying not to show it, as we pulled out ingredients and I found my best cookie recipe, and another for shortbread that Brock loved. Disney songs could only get us so far though, and when Brock's phone pinged, we practically jumped on it.

Brock's eyes rang across the screen quickly, and he let out a long breath before turning to me with a grin.

"He's okay. Finishing up, and heading back. Should be here by tomorrow morning."

I let out a shaky laugh, tension I hadn't realised had been building suddenly draining away from the small of my back and my shoulders. Brock and I shared a smile, then returned to our baking, fighting over oven space, and singing along with renewed enthusiasm.

The cookies had never tasted so good.

.

.

I woke first the next day, and smiled with the remembrance of Bucky's promised return, rolling out of bed and padding through to put the coffeemaker on, gazing out the window, wondering when he would get here. He would have to call Steve at once. Whatever he'd done to gain himself this space, Steve was taking it seriously.

With a sigh, I went back to the bedroom, dressing quickly, feeling the tracker in my pocket for what I hoped would be the last time, waking Brock with a kiss, and leaving him grumbling good-naturedly, with a promise of coffee to motivate him. He came limping into the kitchen, stiffened by sleep, only a couple of minutes later, crossing to open the sliding door, letting in the morning breeze before joining me at the breakfast bar. Reading my face, he returned my grin as I poured the coffee and pushed the shortbread tupperware towards him.

"You spoil me," he said, with a wink.

"Yep."

I was just putting the mugs in the sink when there was a crash. The sound of splintered wood was followed by heavy footsteps. Brock came to his feet, arms up and ready. I grabbed the closest thing to hand, which happened to be the rolling pin, and lunged around the counter to back him up.

Steve burst into the room, his face torn between anger and anguish.

"Bucky?" His eyes took in our two figures, and the rest of the room, then he turned and was gone again, pounding down the hallway. "Bucky!"

I heard the two bedroom doors open, exchanging a glance with Brock.

Steve was back in seconds, this time with Natasha and Sam ghosting in on his heels. He looked around once more, then whipped his phone out of his pocket, jabbed angrily at it, then looked back up at us. Brock relaxed his stance slowly.

"What have you done?" Steve growled. We didn't say anything. "Where is he?!"

"Not here," Brock said, without a trace of apology.

"Not... Where is he?"

This time, Brock held his tongue. It was a mistake. He was good, and knew his stuff, but he was stiff with scars and old wounds, and he was only human. Steve covered the space between them before I could blink, and Brock's back collided with the counter. I flinched away from the sudden movement. Brock lunged away, but was too slow, and Steve had him pinned on the floor in a second.

"Where is he?!" he roared, twisting Brock's arm. "What did you do?!" Steve jerked, there was a sickening, crunching, pop, and Brock let out a yell of pain.

I jumped forwards, swinging the rolling pin with everything I had. It connected with Steve's jaw and he was knocked off balance, releasing Brock as he rolled away, but then he sprang back to his feet, his face furious.

The gunshot split the world.

I gave a sharp cry of shock that I barely heard in my ringing ears. We all looked round.

Bucky was standing outside the sliding doors, pistol pointing up into the air. He looked awful, his jacket smeared with blood, his face unshaven and haunted, with dark circles around his eyes.

Without saying a word, he shouldered the door open and came inside, stowing the pistol away as he did so. I worked my jaw, trying to get my ears to clear, as Steve stepped towards Bucky, reaching a hand towards him. The look Bucky gave him made him not only stop, but take a step backwards.

Bucky walked straight past him to stand over Brock, where he held out a hand. Brock's eyes darted to Steve, but he accepted the help, letting Bucky pull him upright and lean him against the counter. His teeth were gritted as he clutched at his arm.

Bucky took his wrist and his shoulder, and their eyes met.

"On three," Bucky said. "One..." He jerked, and Brock let out a guttural noise of pain. I moved forwards at once, hastening to check on him, and also pressing a hand against Bucky as I did so. His hand covered the spot where mine had been, then he turned away and stomped across to the sofa, straight past Steve, Natasha, and Sam, who wore expressions of varying shock and pain. He ignored them all as he began to methodically strip off his bloodied gear.

"Bucky..." Steve croaked. "Are... are you okay?" he finished lamely.

Bucky barely even paused, somehow working it perfectly into his movement to slam his right hand down on the table. When it withdrew, there was a small glint of metal.

"I believe this is yours," he said, and his tone was icy.

Steve flinched visibly as he looked down at the tracker. "I..." His face had gone pale. "Where were you?"

"Taking care of some things," Bucky said brusquely. "Why did you put that in me? Without telling me about it."

"I'm sorry! I didn't... I wasn't..." Steve hung his head. "I'm sorry."

Bucky shook his head, but sighed silently. "I'm sorry too. For what I said to you."

Steve's head came up. "Then why did you?" he whispered, and now it was Bucky's face that tightened in pain.

"Because I had to make you think I was mad, that I wasn't talking to you, so you wouldn't try and come after me." They looked at each other. "Why did you put a tracker on me?" he asked again.

"Because I was scared," Steve admitted quietly. They both seemed to have forgotten about the rest of us. "I was scared that you might leave and get into trouble, or get hurt, or not be able to get back. I didn't want to lose you."

Bucky's face softened ever so slightly, his rough movements slowing.

"I am sorry. I just..." Steve rubbed his face. "I couldn't bear the thought of you in trouble and I didn't know where you were."

Bucky glanced up at him. "That's why I have a phone," he said gently.

"I know," Steve said miserably. "It was just if you... couldn't get to it. Or something."

"Or something?" Bucky repeated slowly. Steve looked away, and Bucky frowned. "What do you mean by that?"

I glanced away, down at Brock, almost hoping that Steve wouldn't answer, because Bucky's tone was dangerous again.

"If you didn't want to," Steve said, and I couldn't resist looking back at them, trying to gauge their reactions.

Bucky's head was down again, but he was perfectly still. "There it is," he said, and though his voice was quiet, the words carried. He stood up, so suddenly that I flinched backwards. His face was hard. "It's not me you worry about. You think I'll _fuck_ up again."

Steve flinched, and I knew the coarseness had been aimed at him. "No," he pleaded, "I—"

"Oh, stop pretending!" Bucky said, his voice rising. "You're just waiting for it! Well, I'm sorry to be such a _disappointment_ —"

"I love you!"

There was silence. Steve's shout had been loud enough to cut across Bucky's tirade, and left a ringing quiet. The two men were left staring at each other like there was no one else in the room, no one else on the planet.

Steve looked aside first.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I shouldn't have—"

"I thought..." Bucky said roughly. "You never said..."

"I... I didn't want you to—"

Bucky crossed the distance between them in one stride, seizing Steve's shoulders, and kissed him full on the lips.

He pulled away after a second, but didn't let go of Steve's arms. They stared at each other, inches apart, both breathing heavily.

Steve was the one to step forwards the second time.

I covered my mouth, but was sure my grin was big enough to show anyway.

"You owe me ten bucks," Natasha said triumphantly, and Sam sighed.

"Damn."

Beside me, Brock rolled his eyes, giving me a lopsided grin, and a shake of his head. "Alright, break it up," he said, shifting with a wince. "There are other people here too."

Steve and Bucky broke apart, looking sideways, Steve with a glare, Bucky with a grin.

"Problem?" Steve asked icily, but Bucky held him, not letting him step towards us.

"Only if you're gonna go overboard in my front room," Brock pointed out.

Bucky shook his head as he drew further away from Steve. He pointed an accusing finger, and let out a burst of Russian.

Brock snorted, but replied in kind, small smiles tugging at both their mouths.

The tension broken, I stepped around him to the freezer, pulling out the icepack and wrapping it in a cloth before passing it to Brock, who took it with a grateful smile. Steve watches with a slightly sour expression that he was too slow to wipe away as Brock turns back.

"Don't apologize," Brock says shortly. "You don't want to, and I don't need it." They stare at each other, and for a second, the atmosphere turned to a completely different sort of heat than the one that had filled the room a moment ago. Then Steve turned away, and Brock looked to Bucky.

"No complications?"

Bucky's face darkened slightly. "No." He hesitated. "They were sleeping."

"And now?"

Bucky went still for a moment. "Now they won't wake up."

He glanced over, sharing a look with Brock. I watched Steve looked around at Natasha and Sam, sharing their bafflement.

"Buck—"

"Please," Bucky cut over Steve, his voice low. "Don't ask. Please." They exchanged a look, weary against stubborn. "Later. Maybe," Bucky hedged, and Steve nodded, apparently mollified.

"Come home?" he asked, a gentle pleading. Bucky looked up at him. For a moment, I thought he would refuse, but in the end, he reached out, and handed Steve the little tracker, and waited. To his credit, Steve didn't hesitate, crushing it between his fingers. Unfortunately, he then dropped the pieces onto the floor. I held my hands out to the sides with a scowl that no one except Natasha saw and she just grinned.

Bucky looked for a moment at the heap of powdered fragments, then nodded. "Home," he agreed, his exhaustion showing in his tone. Steve smiled, his shoulders lowering, though he went still as Bucky looked back to Brock, and let out another stream of Russian.

Brock frowned, then nodded. He said something in reply, paused, then added a few more words.

Natasha snorted with laughter, shook her head, and walked out. Steve looked after her blankly, then looked back at Bucky, who met his gaze.

"Give me a minute?" Bucky asked. Steve's impersonation of a statue intensified for a moment, only his eyes moving as they flicked from Bucky to Brock and back again. Eventually, he nodded cautiously, herding Wilson out of the room before him. "Steve?" Bucky called him back before he could disappeared, and the blond's head turned as if on a string. "I love you too."

Steve blushed, but grinned, and was gone.

Bucky looked after him for a moment, then stood up with a sigh, letting out another stream of Russian.

Brock shook his head, wincing as he pushed off the counter and stood upright, ice pack still held in place on his shoulder. "Easy, dude, come back. It's just us, you're back. Let it go."

Bucky took a breath. "Sorry. Being back there..." He shook his head.

"S'okay," Brock said. "Sink there," he added, jerking his head back into the kitchen behind us.

"Thanks," Bucky said, moving past us and lathering up both his hands to the wrists. "And thank you, both of you, for what you did."

I gave something between a nod and a shrug.

"What did you do?" Brock asked. "When Rogers called before I texted you..."

Bucky went still for a moment. "I said that he would have preferred it if I hadn't survived. I said that he was just waiting for me to mess up again, that he was only sticking around because he knew he'd have to clear it up." He didn't look at either of us.

There was a moment of silence.

"Wow. Yeah, I guess that would have done it," Brock said.

Bucky groaned, leaning on the sink. "Damnit! What do I do?" he asked his reflection in the mirror.

"Apologise?" I suggested. "You two basically just became the new Romeo and Julio, I'm pretty sure he'll forgive you. Oh, and tell him what you were doing, when you can. Don't keep secrets you don't have to."

Brock didn't have a free hand, but his elbow pressed against mine. I returned the pressure. "You'll be okay," he said to Bucky. "You can't take it back, just do what you can to fix it."

Bucky turned back to face us. "You two are ridiculous," he said, but there was a smile around his mouth.

"Completely," I agreed with him, and he shook his head.

"Thank you, again. Really," he said. "Are you going to be okay?" He jerked his chin at Brock's shoulder.

Brock snorted. "Had worse. Stay in touch."

Bucky nodded, gathered up his gear scattered across the coach, and slipped out of the door.

Brock yawned. "Do you think we'll get some peace and quiet now?"

I snorted. "You wouldn't know what to do with it."

* * *

A/N: One of my favourite chapters, finished off one little arc and starting the next one at the same time. Estimate (touch wood) two chapters left.

Comments make me happy. Just saying.

Summary of Russian translations (because I don't see the point of letting Google translate muck it up then explaining it down here anyway)  
\- After Steve and Bucky kiss - Bucky accuses Brock of essentially cock-blocking. Brock says Bucky can do whatever he wants, as long as it's behind a closed door.  
\- When Bucky has just agreed to go back with Steve - Bucky asks if he can clean up a little. Brock says yes, then tells him that he should tell Steve that he loves him too, because that sort of that shouldn't go unsaid.  
\- After Steve and co leave - Bucky says 'well, that was fun'


	25. Chapter 25

Peace and quiet crept up on us gradually. It came in the little things; lying in bed together in the mornings, the simplicity of work, the two week vacation we took to San Francisco, and the detour to the Grand Canyon on the way back, with the only preparation to leave Bucky a key to the new front door, in case he wanted somewhere to retreat. He'd continued to visit us, with or without warning, but they were welcome surprises, and he hadn't said a word of Russian in months.

Six weeks after our holiday, I came home from a volunteering shift at the local library with a surprise in my bag, only to find there was one already there. I glowered at the door as I opened it, and shut it behind me, cutting out the low rumble of cars to reveal the sound of voices from ahead. Smiling, I toed off my sneakers and moved along to the living room, to find Bucky and Brock looking unusually preoccupied, on either ends of the couch. I hesitated, eyes flicking between them as they both looked up at me.

"I can go for a walk?" I offered cautiously.

They both shook their heads together, puppets on the same strings.

"Actually, you might be able to help," Brock said.

I put my bag down with a heavy thump, the moved over to the chairs, still eyeing them both suspiciously.

"What going on?" I asked, waiting for the apocalyptic news.

Brock grinned, but Bucky was avoiding my gaze. "Bucky wants to know," Brock said, his voice almost vibrating with emotion, "about the lake I took you too. About what I asked you there." His eyebrows rose significantly, and my jaw dropped as I turned to Bucky.

"Really?! Oh, Bucky! Congratulations!"

He flushed but grinned guiltily. "Well, I don't think Steve's going to do it," he said.

"Hmm." I looked away, trying and failing to stop my lips pursing angrily. "Well," I brought back my smile with an effort, "I hope you're both happy. I can't think of anyone who deserves it more."

Bucky wasn't fooled, grinning at me. "Still not forgiven him?"

"He dislocated Brock's shoulder," I said stiffly.

"You hit him with a rolling pin."

"He broke my door."

"He bought you a new one."

"It's not the same."

"Okay, okay," Brock broke in, shaking his head with a smile. "Let's not get into that again."

I huffed, but relented, sitting back in my chair. _It's not about me_ , I reminded myself and forced a smile. "What did you want to know?"

Bucky looked away, his hands twisting together. I watched the browned flesh pressing on the black leather glove covering his metal fingers.

"Why there? What did it mean?" he asked, glancing sideways at Brock. "Did you know that... were you confident she would say yes? And..." he looked up at me and hesitated. "Why did you say yes?"

Brock and I looked at each other.

He spoke first. "I... There was nothing specific about that particular cabin, that lake. I wanted... I guess I wanted to get away from it all. I wanted to try..." He stopped and sighed. "I guess I wanted to try and separate it from everything I'd done before. I wanted to be a different person, in a different place. I wanted to try and be the person I could have been if I hadn't made such bad decisions."

He looked across at Bucky. "It didn't work," he said flatly. "I was the same person there. Guess I always knew that, but..." He smiled. "I was scared. So scared." He looked across at me, his eyes shining. "All the missions, with you, with Rogers, with Jack, I was never so scared as when I asked that question. Because I couldn't possibly imagine Grace saying yes. But I couldn't imagine going on without trying."

Somehow, we were both smiling through fuzzy vision.

"So no," Brock said to Bucky, never taking his eyes off me, "I wasn't confident that I'd get the answer I wanted. I don't think anyone could be, unless they'd discussed it before."

I reached out and took his hand, squeezing his hand. "There was no place, no way, that you could have asked me that would have changed my answer," I told him.

"Someone bring out the tissues," Bucky said.

I gave a laugh, turning my gaze back to him, watching him examine the ceiling.

"The point is," I said, "it doesn't matter how you ask, it matters who you are asking. You love him?"

Bucky smiled, and the answer was written across his face. I couldn't help smiling back.

"Then don't worry about how. There are a million different ways. You could find something special to you, something meaningful from your past, or you could go somewhere new, make new memories. Or you could just walk through the door, go straight up to him, tell him how you feel, and what you want. Whatever feels right for you. Just make it happen."

Some of the joy faded from his face.

"But what if he says no?" he asked quietly, after a moment of silence.

"Then at least you'll know," I said simply. "No doesn't always mean never. I don't know Steve. He might want to wait, he might not want to do it at all. But it will let him know you want to, and that you're serious about it."

He didn't look convinced.

"Either he'll say yes, or he'll say no," Brock broke in. "Both of them are starting points, things you can move forwards from."

Bucky nodded slowly. "I guess." He sat in thought for another moment, then roused himself. "I should go."

"You don't have to," I pointed out, but he shook his head.

"No, I..." He took a breath. "I have some thinking to do. Planning. I have some planning to do." His guilty grin was the most innocent thing I'd seen in years.

As the door shut behind him, I shook my head with a smile and went to retrieve my bag, groaning at the forgotten weight of it.

"Carrying bricks around?" Brock asked.

"Not this time," I said with a grin over my shoulder. "Just something for next week."

"Ah," his eyes twinkled. "In that case, I didn't notice anything."

"Good!" I called back as I went along to our bedroom to stash the heavy book in my drawers. There would be a chance when Brock was out to wrap it.

.

.

Next Monday, we were both woken from a lie in to the sound of Brock's phone. If it had been anything other than Bucky's ringtone, I would have smashed it. As it was, I opened one eye, more for the amusement of watching Brock curse as he flailed for the guilty device. He put it on speaker, dropping it onto the bed between us.

"Dude," he said accusingly, by way of a greeting.

"I'm engaged."

I squeaked, then promptly started coughing as my throat reminded me that it was too early for loud noises.

"Wow. Jeez. Congratulations," Brock said, looking stunned, but also grinning at my predicament.

"Will you be my best man?"

I stopped coughing.

Brock blinked.

"Wow. Man, I... wow. I'm... Is Rogers okay with that?"

"He will be."

"Then... yeah. I'd be honoured. But... you sure?"

"Wouldn't have asked if I wasn't. Wanted to let you know."

"Thanks. Congrats. Again. Seriously."

"Thanks. Gotta go. Oh, and Happy Birthday." Bucky hung up.

Brock blinked again. "Didn't know you knew," he muttered, tossing the phone away, and grinning over at me. "You up?"

I groaned, rolled over, and sat up. "I'm up." I reached under the bed and pulled out the book I'd wrapped in silver paper. "Happy Birthday."

Brock kissed me on the cheek and took the parcel, then tore into it like a child. I laughed as paper shreds flew everywhere. Brock pulled out the thick book with a frown, looking up at me with wide eyes.

"I found your other one," I said with a smirk. "It's a bit dog-eared."

He gave me an affronted look. "I think you mean 'well-loved'," he sniffed, then broke the act and grinned. "Thank you. I love it." He ran a rough hand over the embossed cover, promising more than 250 of the most potent poems, then flipped the book carefully open, leafing through a few pages before closing it again.

"Thank you," he repeated, leaning over to kiss me. There was a twinkle in his eyes when he pulled back. Carefully setting the poetry book aside, he slipped out of bed, padding across to the dresser and pulled out a thin rectangular package in blue paper.

"Happy Birthday," he said, handing it to me as he rejoined me on the bed.

I grinned, then attacked the paper with just as much enthusiasm as he had used on his.

It was another book. _Viva Coldplay._ I grinned, opened the front page and my jaw dropped. It was signed. I squeaked for the second time, and Brock chuckled.

"Thank you," I breathed, "I love it!"

"I love you," he returned.

"Love you more."

"Not possible."

* * *

 **A/N:** Birthday cuteness! And an engagement! Hope you enjoyed.  
And since I firmly believe in credit where credit is due, my thanks to Scarlett Barnes for giving me the inspiration to get this chapter finished after I got into a funk, for her constant corrections of my poor Americanisms, and for letting me bounce ideas off her. She's a gift.  
Go check out her new story "Let the Wolves Enjoy My Bones", which is an Expansion/Rewrite of the post-credit scene from Civil War, and huge improvement. It's great. Check it out.

P.S I love reviews!  
PPS, there's an interview with FG where he says he likes poetry, so that's where the inspiration for his present came from. He's also _literally_ Grace's Brock in it XD Will try to link at some point.


	26. Chapter 26

**A/N:** Not even going to try and make excuses for how long this has been waiting... One of my other stories took over, and Grace stopped talking to me. Many thanks to Katie for kicking me enough times to finally get me to write it! Anyway. Final chapter, rounding things off. Hope you enjoy!

.

.

Predictably, the news that Captain America was engaged to his childhood friend, Bucky Barnes, spread like wildfire through the media. I wasn't quite sure how they got hold of the story, as they were reporting it several hours before Steve and Bucky confirmed the news themselves. The backlash was no more or less than anyone expected, and for the most part, the wave of hatred washed past them without any visible effect, and the upsurge of support was far greater. There were countless interviews, offers and requests from venues and designers, and discussions over what colours the men would wear, but no response from Iron Man, official or otherwise.

Brock, as Bucky's sole best man, shouldered his share of responsibility with good grace, even managing to progress from civil to warily comfortable around Sam Wilson, who was filling the role on Steve's side. But for all their posturing and pretended decisions, most of the planning was taken out of all their hands by the joint efforts of Sharon Carter and Natasha until the grumbling stories Brock told made me wonder whose wedding it actually was. Not that the women took over the event; I didn't manage to spend ten minutes in Bucky's presence without one of them either calling, texting, or striding over to ask something about a particular shade of flower petal, or some other detail. Bucky didn't seem phased in the slightest, just a little relieved to hand over some of the responsibility. Steve was a little more stressed by it all, his shoulders hunching and teeth clenching together during a particularly intense interrogation, but he looked over at Bucky for a long moment and relaxed, a half-smile coming over his face. He turned back to Natasha's questions with a resigned patience.

Since I wasn't an official member of either wedding party, I had an excellent excuse to avoid most of the preparation and I used it constantly. Brock kept me up to date with the gossip, and I was gladder than ever that we'd avoided a similar circus. From his scowls, I knew he felt the same.

.

.

Despite the stress and the endless interest, the wedding came together eerily quickly. Natasha had been ruthless at accepting offers of assistance, from venues, photographers, caterers, bakers, stationery companies, balloon companies, and pretty much every other avenue of the business. So it was only two weeks after their engagement that invitations were sent out, on silver-coloured cards, and the date was set for August 26th, exactly 2 months after Brock's and my shared birthday. I'd heard too many horror stories to be completely confident that everything would be ready by then, but I'd underestimated Sharon's and Natasha's organisational powers and as the date rolled around, everything seemed to come together amazingly fast. Apparently, Steve was a nervous wreck, bouncing from needing to be within 2 feet of Bucky to being unable to look him in the eye with the speed of a bungee cord. It irritated Brock to no end, but he seemed more worried about Bucky's silence that Steve's whining.

The night before the big day, I was woken by sudden movement, rolling over to find Brock sitting bolt-upright, and a shadow knocking on the door. I'd barely registered the noise when it was layered over by a stream of Russian in a familiar tone. With a groan, I lay back down.

"You can take this one," I muttered, rolling over.

"Thanks," Brock said sourly, flapping the covers as he swung his legs out of bed. I growled half-heartedly, snatching the duvet before he could do it again, burrowing deeper into the warm patch I'd made as Brock limped to the door, foreign words flowing from his mouth as he slipped out. Bucky's voice rose in response, then faded as Brock led him away.

I dozed, unwilling to fall properly asleep, but unable to stay fully awake, the two voices growing too quiet to track. When the door opened carefully, I jumped a little, then pushed up on one elbow, squinting at Brock's outline until he flicked off the hall light, blinding me.

"He okay?" I asked into the dark.

Brock grunted. "Usual nerves. 'I don't deserve this, don't deserve him, he doesn't really want me, I shouldn't be here, I haven't paid enough, I should have been killed, I've killed too much...', etc, etc, etc."

"Oh yes, usual stuff," I snarked back as he climbed in.

"I put him down in the spare room," he said with a yawn, sliding over. "It's like having a kid."

"Oh God, your feet are freezing," I gasped, jerking my ankles back from the searching icicles that had once been his toes. "And I think he's a little less maintenance than a kid would be."

"True," Brock yawned again. "Teenager then."

I gave a hum of laughter. "Does someone know he's here?"

"Yep."

"Good." Winding my feet around his to warm them, I closed my eyes, and we drifted together.

.

.

Bucky's face was a little drawn the next morning, but he perked up after some coffee and a text that made him smile but blink very hard as well, taking a deep breath past a slightly trembling lip. Brock and I exchanged a glance but didn't comment.

We left soon afterwards, splitting for Brock and Bucky to go and get ready while I sought out Natasha to see if there was anything I could do. The harassed look on her face convinced me not to bother her, so instead I joined a steady stream of people bringing in tablecloths and chairs, following her pointed directions. I'd already passed her twice when she grabbed my arm, pulling me out of the line.

"Grace?! What are you doing? You shouldn't be doing that!"

"Is there something else I can do?"

She hesitated.

"Then I'll carry on," I grinned, slipping back in with my chair and tucking it neatly under an empty space at the table.

"But..." Natasha spluttered. "But you're a guest. Just... why do you go see how the boys are doing?"

"Natasha," I said firmly, stopping in front of her. "They're fine. It's all fine. It's going to be okay."

"Don't sound so certain," she grumbled. "You'll jinx it."

.

.

I hadn't jinxed it. The ceremony went off without a hitch, Steve and Bucky walking in from opposite sides to where Brock, Sam, and the officiator were waiting. I thought they both looked a little anxious in their dark suits, Steve's with a hint of blue, but the smiles they gave each other wiped the nerves off their faces.

A few short words and signatures later, and what the world had been speculating over for far too long, became binding, legal, irrefutable fact.

I cried. Brock cleared his throat several times, and I caught him staring up at the ceiling. Catching his eye, I gave him a watery smile and he grinned guiltily back.

A few slaps on the shoulder and handshakes later and Bucky and Steve led the process out to the next room, and the party really began. We had an hour of fun, laughing, cutting the cake and a weird mixture of music before it happened.

.

.

The sudden hush was the only warning we got, spreading silence from the entrance, creeping around the room like a toxic fog, and as I turned to see what had caused it, the laughter died in my throat. Tony Stark barely hesitated, striding through the silence he'd caused, a dark omen in a dark suit. My head whipped the other way, to where Steve and Bucky had both risen to their feet, Bucky taking half a step backwards. Past them, I could see Brock's pale face, his jaw set and one hand out of sight. I swallowed as people rippled out of the way, clearing a path between Stark and his targets.

 _No!_ I wanted to scream the word, but the silence was binding. We should be stopping him, not clearing a free path. Stark came to a halt a few feet in front of Steve and Bucky, hands hidden in his pockets.

"Guess my invite got lost?" he quipped. No one laughed, Steve and Bucky not moving from their tense positions, Bucky half turned to flee. Tony waited for a second, but when no response was forthcoming, he sighed. "I realised there's something I left unfinished."

Steve made an angry movement forwards, but Bucky was faster, seizing his arm and spinning them around so that he was the one closer to Stark, Steve out of the way behind him. Bucky and Stark stared at each other for far too long before Stark finally moved. My scream caught in my throat, Brock's movement catching my eye for a second before I saw Stark's empty right hand extending between them. Everyone gaped down at it in confusion for a second, Bucky included, before he raised his stunned eyes back up to Stark.

"Actually, no," Tony said, whipping his right hand back. Then he extended his left in its place. I actually grabbed the back of the nearest chair as my legs suddenly began to tremble along with my vision.

"Tony..." Steve said from behind Bucky, his shocked voice trailing away.

Stark grimaced, waggling his hand in the air. "C'mon man, peace offering here."

Very carefully, Bucky lifted his left hand, and they shook.

"I don't understand," Bucky said, as their hands, flesh and metal, broke apart.

Stark snorted. "Nor do I. But when the whole world seems to know something you don't..." He glanced back over his shoulder and I followed his line of sight to the entrance, where Cornel Rhodes was leaning slightly on a ginger woman I vaguely recognised, both with satisfied expressions on their faces. "Well, then I guess it was time to admit that I was the one being a stubborn ass."

Bucky nodded slowly, tilting his head to the side. "Nice. Really emotional."

Stark huffed. "Yeah. Whatever. I'm sor—"

"Don't," Bucky cut him off. "Please... don't. Just... thank you."

"Yeah... well..." Stark shrugged, somehow taking a step back without moving his feet. "Capsicle," he nodded in Steve's direction, but Steve seemed to have lost the ability to speak. There was another moment of stunned silence when the awkwardness swelled, then Stark looked around again. "Your DJ is awful, c'mon, this is meant to be a party!" There was a smattering of laughter, and the music restarted hastily, giving the trio the illusion of privacy as everyone began talking.

I could barely breathe, let alone speak.

"Hey."

I whirled around, nearly twisting my ankle, Brock catching my arm and keeping me on my feet.

"Can't be a wedding without drama, I guess," he said, as I relaxed a little.

"Couldn't be _their_ wedding without drama," I amended, and he chuckled as he looked over my shoulder.

"Do you think he'll stop coming round now?" he mused. "Would be nice to sleep through the night without having to coddle him in Russian."

I snorted. "Oh please. You'd miss him. Wouldn't know what to do with yourself. Besides, didn't we agree that he's basically our adopted teenager?"

"Something like that," Brock smirked. "One that has moved out."

"I'm sure we can find another stray if you're feeling abandoned," I said, rolling my eyes.

"If we do, let's go for a smaller one," Brock said. "Something like a puppy."

.

.

 **A/N:** Well, that's it for Gracie and Brock, I hope you've enjoyed, please leave a comment if you did :D


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